


These Days

by themantlingdark



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: please pretend commenting is turned off and please don't repost.





	These Days

1 All the Times I Had the Chance To

 

Steve grows a little, finally, the summer he turns seventeen. He's been relatively healthy, by his standards. His body sees its chance and takes it.

He's trying to make his clothes last. They were loose before, but all his pants are up at his ankles now, and his shirts are getting snug. He's glad to have the evidence of growth, though. Proud to be even this little bit bigger. He wishes the rest of him would grow half as well as his hair - it's getting long, but haircuts cost money, and so do scissors, so he hasn't bothered with either.

He's walking to meet Bucky at the grocer where Buck works unloading trucks.

Bucky is already done when Steve gets there. He's leaning against the brick facade of the building with his left knee bent and his foot against the wall.

He's watching the sidewalk, waiting for Steve, and his tired face lifts with a bright and easy grin when he sees Steve's face from a dozen yards away.

Steve's mouth is twisting to his right in that crooked smile he stubbornly tries to rein in. When Steve's lips aren't lavender with asthma, they're a deep berry pink. And when he's healthy and he's active, the same color spreads to his cheeks. It sets off the blue in his eyes.

He's walking fast. There's no breeze, but his blond hair has blown back from the pace of his feet. It makes him look lighter. Younger. And with his face so naked, his eyelashes become his dominant feature. They look like they've been painted on.

Bucky isn't the only one who notices.

Steve passes a store two doors down and the men standing in the entryway snort in unison.

“That's a three-letter man if I ever saw one.”

It isn't even a whisper - the man raises his voice.

Steve doesn't blink until he sees Bucky pushing off the wall and walking in a path parallel to his own. Bucky's fists are clenched. His shoulders are squared and set back. His chin is tucked in just slightly and there's a predatory focus in his eyes. He has every intention of hauling past Steve to clobber the guys.

Steve darts his right arm out to catch Bucky by the elbow and nearly goes over backward in the process.

“It ain't an insult, Buck,” Steve says, fast and low, and Bucky stops and meets Steve's eyes with a gaze that's half wild.

“That's not what they think,” Bucky argues.

“You wanna call what they do thinkin'?" Steve says, raising his eyebrows the way he always does when he knows he's right.

Bucky lets his shoulders down and takes a slow breath.

“No,” Bucky breathes. “I wanna scuff the sidewalk with their teeth.”

“Come on,” Steve snorts, yanking Bucky's arm and continuing on his way. “You said you'd help carry my books home from the library. You're not weaseling out of it with a fight.”

Bucky sighs and turns on his heel.

“Yeah, yeah. I remember. Go easy on the art history books this time, pal - those things are heavy.”

It happens again and again. About half the time they're out together. Year after year.

No one ever says anything about Bucky, but there are stage-whispers and outright shouts about Steve – fag, fairy, queen - and more descriptive things when they're down by the docks and Steve is drawing.

Bucky hopes maybe Steve can't hear it all since his ears aren't so good.

They're walking home from a movie on a warm summer night, laughing and teasing each other, when a drunk in an alley whispers something so lewd it stops Bucky in his tracks.

Steve keeps laughing.

“Leave it alone, Buck,” Steve snorts. “That was so specific I can only assume he's done it.”

“Or paid to see it done,” Bucky agrees.

The drunk curses and starts to stagger after them, so they run.

Steve's feet barely touch the ground with Bucky's arm around his ribs, helping him along. Their footsteps echo behind them and they get a few suspicious glances from the other people out on the street, since they're very clearly fleeing some sort of trouble.

“He's on his face,” Bucky huffs, looking back over his shoulder when he hears distant cursing.

The friends separate very slightly and ease back into a walk as they make their way toward their neighborhood.

And Bucky realizes Steve has likely heard everything all these years. He knew Steve had heard half, but he thought the softer whispers had slipped past unremarked.

It doesn't matter.

Bucky knows Steve. Knows that Steve won't back down about this. That he won't rise to the bait. Won't take offense at any slur hurled his way because to respond is to give the word meaning and power. It would be evidence of agreement that the thing is an insult.

And this is why Bucky holds his own tongue. Even when Steve is looking at him with those soft wet eyes and that full red smile – the one that he only ever brings out for Bucky, with all his teeth in it, so wide it makes his eyes squeeze shut. Bucky just makes himself memorize it, because this is all he will allow himself to have.

He's been in love with Steve since he was fourteen - and loved him better than a brother long before that. He would bet his life that the feeling has been mutual since Steve was fifteen – Steve hit puberty a little late.

Bucky knows Steve Rogers as well as he knows himself. Steve is a daydreamer. A fighter. He's generous with what little he has. He's a relentless idealist. Endlessly optimistic – and, therefore, frequently disappointed.

Steve would kiss him in public.

Hold his hand while they walked down the street.

Buy him dinners, watches, and wedding rings.

Because that's what would be right.

But Bucky knows this world.

Bucky is a realist.

They would be beaten bloody, denied work, mocked, and very possibly murdered.

Bucky won't risk Steve's life. He's spent too many years trying to save it to throw it away for lust. What they have is already so much. Bucky won't let them get greedy.

  


2 Please Don’t Confront Me With My Failures

 

When Steve is fifteen, his doctor tells him he'll be lucky to see thirty.

When Steve is sixteen, a building burns down three blocks away. The smoke in the air sets off his asthma and nearly kills him. He understands that any breath could be his last.

He feels sorry for his mother.

He knows he's been breaking her heart from the first. She hadn't even held him in her arms before the doctor told her her baby had a heart defect.

And then there were sinus infections.

Ear aches.

Colds that never seemed to go away.

She'll most likely outlive her only son.

When Steve's father died, it killed something in his mother. Her face was never the same afterward. Steve saw the photographs from before. How young she looked. Smooth and smiling. After the war, the corners of her mouth fell and the inner edges of her eyebrows pulled upward permanently.

Steve feels sick at the thought of putting her through anything like that again.

Steve saw the pattern in the world while he was stuck in bed with books. In stories, paintings, and poetry from every age and every corner of the globe.

Grief.

Because death is the only constant.

All the most moving love stories are about loss. It yields an unfailing reaction in an audience. Moves even the hardest men to tears.

Steve feels worse about it all when it comes to Bucky. Because Bucky chose him. Willingly hitched his wagon to a dying horse.

Bucky has wept enough on Steve's account already. Steve won't risk breaking him. The love of Steve's life deserves a love that stands a chance at lasting a lifetime.

Steve knows his name isn't on that list.

So his heart keeps itself sequestered at a safe distance and thuds awkwardly at its object from across cold rooms and rickety tables.

The first time Steve tries to enlist, Bucky is furious.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Bucky boggles.

“Buck, I don't see what you're so angry about. I've got maybe eight years left in me if I'm lucky. Might as well do some good with my death.”

“Don't say that, goddammit, don't even think it. They don't know that. They don't know you. They're just guessing.”

Bucky is breathing as hard as Steve does during an asthma attack. His face has gone all blotchy and tears are stuttering down his cheeks.

The one taboo subject between them has always been Steve's lifespan. His future... or likely-lack-thereof. Bucky balks from it as a horse would a snake.

“You gotta sit this one out, Steve,” Bucky says, and it sounds like begging. “This world needs men like you in it to pick up the pieces when all this shit is over. Let me do the dirty work for once, huh?”

Steve doesn't.

  


3 I Won’t Do Too Much Scheming

 

Natasha has told no one who Steve found.

She sweeps Steve's room at the hospital for microphones and cameras, crushing them beneath the heel of her boot while she gives Steve an innocent smile, leaving little mounds of plastic, glass, and wire on the floor for the nurses to frown at.

They use their favorite trick for privacy.

She leans in over Steve's left shoulder. That half of his chest is fine, so he can pull her down and let her rest her weight there while he hides his face in her neck and they roll their heads gently, taking turns setting their lips to each other's ears and making a show of raking their fingers through each other's hair.

“Anything?” Steve breathes.

“Mmmmm,” she moans, loud and urgent enough that the nurse who has just appeared in the doorway immediately turns tail. “You cast a handsome shadow, old man,” Natasha teases, pulling back and pressing her forehead to Steve's.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, with a sad smile and a brief flash of pink in his cheeks.

“He might never remember more than he does now,” she warns, dipping her head to meet his gaze straight on. Her voice is low and even, but her eyes hold an apology.

“I know,” Steve nods, and Nat sees the ridges in his larynx rise and fall, shifting his Adam's apple as his throat tightens and he swallows down a lump. “I wouldn't mind if he never remembered me if it meant he didn't have to remember anything else either. If he could have a clean slate, you know? Make all his thoughts his own.”

Natasha smiles tightly and nods. She wants to go back in time and slap herself for hesitating at an offer of friendship from this man. One couldn't hope for better.

She gives him a kiss that isn't for show. A long press of lips to his left temple.

He smiles his goodbye and then sits alone thinking of memory.

There's so much that Steve doesn't remember, though no one has tampered with his mind.

The decade's-worth of afternoons he and Bucky spent playing together are gone.

He knows they happened, but he can't remember all the games. All the words they said. The weather from day to day. What they ate for lunch.

And then, when they were young men, they lived together for years, but Steve has lost all those sleepy conversations over skimpy breakfasts.

He has misplaced the knees bumped together beneath the flimsy table throughout a thousand dinners.

He knows they always said, “G'night,” before bed, regular as religion, but he can't hear a chorus of Buckys calling it out to him through time.

He wonders what his mind was holding out for. Why it let all those easy days slip through its fingers. Why it now clings tightly to terrors that never occurred to him even in his worst nightmares.

  


4 I’ve Been Out Walking

 

His left arm is no good for details, even when it's fully functional, which it is not. He slammed his right shoulder back into socket while he was pinned on the helicarrier in the hope that everything would be aligned when the swelling started. And it worked. But it still burned when he swam. The pain was so bright and hot it was almost blinding. He had to give up on it. He gripped Rogers' collar between his teeth so that his left arm was free for swimming and his right could trail uselessly at his side while his legs kicked and churned through the river for all they were worth. Now he's merely bruised from his collarbone down to the base of his breast and across the whole of his upper arm, front and back. His ribs are cracked from being crushed beneath the steal beam, but they're rapidly mending. His right arm is fully functional as long as he doesn't lift more than fifty-three pounds with it. His right hand is perfectly healthy, so he can still navigate the world without drawing attention to himself.

At a truck stop, he spots a driver who is roughly his size. He waits for the man to use the bathroom, then goes to his rig, wrenches the cab door open, and slips inside to steal a spare set of clothes.

He only has one lead, so he follows it. Literally, when possible. At first he has to do it by proxy. He watches Sam Wilson go into the hospital, and when Sam comes out again he tails the man for a few minutes, making sure he gets close enough to smell him. Wilson smells like blood and Captain Rogers. But he is cheerful, which means that Rogers is still breathing.

This is unsurprising. The bullet wounds were clearly survivable. The soldier knew it when he made them. His aim was... off.

He watches the news where it plays on televisions through store and restaurant windows.

Pierce is dead.

Officially, anyway. He knows that doesn't necessarily mean anything. But the detonator in his arm hasn't gone off yet, so either there's no one around to push the button, or they're expecting him to come back. They're not tailing him with the beacon embedded in his shoulder. Not yet, at least. Perhaps there really is no one left. Or perhaps they've just assumed that he's still finishing his mission, since it's well known that Rogers is alive.

And Rogers is the mission; it's the objective that has altered. Evaporated. It's the thing the soldier is searching for.

His best bet for answers is the man he shot in the back.

On the third day, Barnes sees an angel fall to the earth outside the hospital.

No one else seems to think anything of it.

He can't decide if it's a Hashmal, a Power, or a Ruler - and he doesn't know why he knows those names. He supposes, at the heart of it, they're ultimately the same.

He half expects the thing to have Steve in its arms as it leaves. He's relieved to find them empty. He's not sure why.

The being is smiling now where it wore a grimmer expression upon its entrance.

It looks right at him, smiles a hair wider, dips its head almost imperceptibly, and leaps up into the sky.

When Rogers is released, Barnes follows him home and lies on the rooftop of the building opposite, watching and listening.

Sam is with the captain. Helping him move and bringing him food. For days.

At one point, Romanoff slips in through Steve Rogers' window. Rogers hears it. Wilson does not.

She combs the apartment for surveillance devices and then leaves them in place, silently indicating to the captain where they lie hidden.

Rogers' face goes through a wide range of expressions around this woman. He hides little from her. Possibly nothing.

Barnes remembers putting a bullet through her. And one through the captain in nearly the same place. Perhaps these two are too alike to bother with secrets and façades.

She leans in to kiss the captain's cheek and possibly whisper in his ear before she slips back out the window.

Barnes can smell the fading scent of fresh paint from his position. The building has been repaired extensively since he shot it to pieces.

He sees Sam settle in with a book while Steve sinks into bed and fails to fall asleep.

Barnes knows he won't be able to question Rogers until Wilson is gone, so he drops to the ground and walks down a busy street until he sees what he needs.

He steals a phone and uses it to do a search.

He learns that his mission is featured in a local history museum.

He finds himself there, too.

It might just be propaganda.

It's bright and shiny and simple in a way that the world never could be.

The soldier wonders if this is what Pierce meant when he said he – Barnes – had shaped history.

He suspects it is not.

He remembers that Rogers was shocked to see him alive.

And he sees an image that he thought he had imagined: Captain Rogers, with the face of a man on the form of a child.

He had assumed it was some sort of mental failing, but now he suspects it was a memory. At present, it's the only one he has that isn't related to his past missions, so it's still hard for him to tell.

He remembers endless weapons training. He knows how to fly jets and helicopters that aren't even made anymore. He remembers that he can easily hold his breath for ten minutes, twenty if he has to. He knows how to hot-wire cars and improvise camouflage. How to navigate by the stars. How to speak English - fluently, Russian - fluently, Japanese - fluently, French - fluently, Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese, Pashto, Farsi, Arabic, Korean, Spanish, Portuguese, and German - fluently.

But he thinks in English with an American accent.

His head hurts. It makes him nervous. He doesn't know why on either count. His anxiousness makes him sweat. He already reeks. He's been washing himself in public restrooms as best he can, but it's clearly not enough. The people around him in the museum are making quiet comments and keeping their distance. It means he's drawing attention to himself, and he can't afford that, especially not in a crowded building with heavy security.

He makes his way back to Rogers' neighborhood, taking the back alleys so he can filch food from dumpsters, then resumes his post on the opposite rooftop.

He wonders if Rogers told the museum what to say, or if the museum told Rogers not to contradict their story.

Rogers hasn't exhibited any of the hallmarks of a career liar. His answers are straightforward. He doesn't explain himself or make excuses. He's readily accessible. He doesn't wear suits. He doesn't spend all his time on his phone or his computer. He doesn't drive an armored car. He has no security system.

Rogers also has friends. Not many, but loyal. He makes them happy – Romanoff went into the hospital looking pale and blank but left looking rosy and smiling just slightly. Sam Wilson seems not to wish to leave Steve's side.

And Rogers pays attention to his surroundings for reasons other than reconnaissance: he draws them, with no intention of using the drawings for reference later - and anyway he has a camera in his phone that would yield more accurate images. Nothing the captain draws is remotely useful – his feet, his friends, his left hand, pigeons, crumpled up paper.

Barnes can hear Wilson telling Rogers what to do.

“Get rid of these grandpa-pants, man. No one's gonna touch your ass in these.”

Rogers does not move to comply , but instead retorts.

“Tell that to all the people who like to pat my bottom on the bus.”

There are no reprimands and the conversation goes nowhere functional after that.

“'Bottom'? Are you serious? Bottom. Jesus. Not even butt. And what hell are you doing on the bus?”

“It rains. Bikes are a drag in the rain.”

“Can't you just jog with an umbrella? Or do you use your shield for that now? Does it have a handle attachment?”

“I'm sure you'd like to be getting back home to a warm cozy marshmallow of your own,” Steve offers.

“And I'm sure you'd like to run off and do something stupid, so we're both in for a lot of disappointment tonight.”

Rogers smiles at this.

“Go on home, Sam. I'll be fine.”

Sam laughs and ignores him.

Military men with no interest in rank or compliance.

Barnes wonders how they've lasted so long.

Rogers seems to enjoy disobedience. Perhaps because he isn't punished. Can't be, in most cases – he's too strong.

If he knows he won't be punished, he has no incentive to do what he's told.

If the museum told Rogers to pretend Barnes was his friend, it seems unlikely that Rogers would obey, which makes it probable that Barnes was genuinely Rogers' friend.

The captain also tends destroy the things he doesn't like.

The soldier is still in one piece. So is the museum.

Two more points for their friendship.

Sam sleeps on the couch every night for a week. He tells Rogers it's better than a bed. Almost as good as a stone floor.

On the sixteenth morning, Sam and Steve leave to meet with Natasha.

She gives Captain Rogers a file and then the two men return to Steve's apartment, where Sam makes Steve breakfast.

“Aren't you gonna have some?” Steve asks, when Sam grabs his bag and heads for the door.

“I know better than to eat my own cooking,” Sam smiles, and Steve laughs. “Don't do anything you want to do,” Sam warns, before he leaves. “Promise me. Stay put, all right?”

“I'll be good for one day,” Steve answers, holding his right hand in the air with his palm facing his friend. “After that, it's just bad decisions as far as the eye can see.”

“Don't I know it,” Sam sighs, then nods his head once and flashes a grin as he slips through the door.

The Captain sits and stares at nothing while his breakfast goes cold on the table in front of him. Then he shakes himself and eats it anyway.

After he has done the dishes, he sits down, takes a deep breath, opens the file, and reads.

Within twenty-six seconds, he becomes visibly upset and begins pacing. He gets his laptop and looks something up. Returns to the file. Stands up. Paces again and wipes tears off his face. Returns to the file. Runs to the bathroom. Vomits. Cleans his mouth. Returns to the file again. Closes it. After that, he goes to his room, sits at the foot of his bed, and stares at the floor while his tears drip onto his thighs. He stays that way throughout sunset, dusk, and nightfall.

 

5 I Don’t Do Too Much Talking

 

At ten sixteen pm, Steve can hear breathing outside his window. He's been waiting for it all week. His pupils dilate in the dark. His body floods with adrenaline, making his knees shake as he sits doing nothing.

He wants to rush over and drag Bucky in by the collar, but he waits. He won't risk spooking him or inciting a fight.

There's a quiet rattle – soft as a moth landing - when the screen is lifted out of its slot, tilted, and then lowered into the room. Steve can barely hear the feet that hit the floor. He can hear soft breathing and a slow heartbeat. He can smell body odor, concrete, and stale bagels. The screen is returned to its slot in the window and then the curtains are drawn across it.

Steve slowly turns his head to his left and then raises a finger to his lips to warn Bucky of the surveillance he knows they're under.

Bucky nods once.

Steve rises silently and holds out his hands, asking for Bucky's jacket. Bucky eyes him in the dark. Steve tilts his head toward the stacking washer and dryer in the corner beside the bathroom.

Bucky nods and strips with obedience and efficiency – the two virtues instilled in him by his keepers - and Steve's mind bolts down roads that make him queasy before he reins it back in to focus on the present.

Steve holds up a hand, asking Bucky to wait while he throws all the clothes in the washing machine. He doesn't start it yet, wanting the water pressure to be good.

Bucky stays put. To anyone listening, it would be odd to hear Steve showering while he was also loading the washer.

Steve leads Bucky into the bathroom, shuts the door, and flips on the light.

Now he can see the bruises that have faded to green all over Bucky's right shoulder and the scars that will always be red on Bucky's left.

The shadows beneath Bucky's eyes make it look like he's recovering from rhinoplasty - glossy and purple.

But his nose is straight and symmetrical – unchanged in spite of everything.

He has his all teeth, too. And the top right front tooth still presses forward just slightly, as if it has something to say or somewhere to be.

Steve scans the strange body before him. So lean and muscled now. Honed by uses it never saw before. There are no serious wounds. No substantial scars beyond the ones on his shoulder.

Steve counts his blessings where he finds them.

Satisfied with his assessment of Bucky's health, Steve looks Bucky in the eye and then drags his fingertips over his own jaw, raising his eyebrows in a question as he mouths a word.

Shave?

Bucky shakes his head no. The beard makes him harder to recognize.

Steve nods and turns on the shower. Three full turns of the hot handle and a half turn of cold is what he finds most comfortable.

Bucky pulls his hair out of the greasy pony tail he put it in with a rubber band he found on the ground and then steps into the steam.

Steve sits on top of the toilet seat and waits.

He's not sure what to do. Agent thirteen is next door. And for all Steve knows, Bucky might still want to kill him.

Steve doesn't know where to turn. He doesn't like putting his friends in danger. Sam is willing to help. He's loyal, brave, thoughtful, and his humor and warmth are an incredible comfort. Sam understands what it's like to walk out of war and back into a life you no longer recognize with nothing but losses etched into your mind. But Sam isn't built the way Steve and Bucky are built. And Steve isn't yet sure if Bucky is a threat.

Nat's taken one of Bucky's bullets already. But she's the only person Steve knows who's good at stealth and secrets. He thinks maybe he'll ask her to advise him from a safe distance.

The water shuts off and Steve is grateful to catch a break from watching his mind chase its own tail.

He rises and grabs a towel while Bucky steps out of the shower. Those big blue eyes are watching Steve for a false move as Bucky's body drips all over the bathmat. He takes the towel from Steve's fingers as cautiously as a wild animal accepts an offered treat. His expression is wary. His chin is down to protect his throat. All of his muscles are poised to dash him out the door.

For Steve, the scents of the soap and shampoo had faded with familiarity, but they're fresh again now that he's catching them on someone else's skin. Mint and rosemary. Things you can eat. Tiny comforts. Old luxuries.

When Bucky is done drying off, Steve turns off the light and leads the way out to the bedroom. He starts the washing machine in the hope that it will muffle the sounds of two sets of footsteps in case anyone is listening that closely.

He gets a t-shirt and pajama bottoms out of his dresser while Bucky waits, standing straight, tall, and naked in perfect silence.

Steve wonders whether they would speak if they knew no one was listening. He's pretty sure he'd say something, but he's uncertain if Bucky would answer.

When Bucky is dressed in the white jersey top and woven blue bottoms he looks more like the man Steve remembers. Soft and light.

Steve wants to wind around him like a cocoon and never let him go.

But that's impossible, and, even if it weren't, there would likely be a brawl.

So, instead, Steve slowly reaches for Bucky's right hand with his left. Bucky's body goes tense and his gaze hardens. Steve maintains eye contact and keeps moving at a snail's pace. His fingers close lightly around Bucky's wrist and gently attempt to guide it up between them.

Bucky resists. There's a wrinkle between his eyebrows that makes Steve nervous.

Steve leaves his hand where it is, circling Bucky's limb. With his index finger, he taps and swipes into the skin:

 .  _ _.   _ _. …   .._ _..

(e     g g s     ?)

Bucky looks up from their hands, blinks a few times in rapid succession, and then nods. He follows Steve into the kitchen, where Rogers waves him into a chair.

Bucky looks through the file that's still lying on Steve's kitchen table. The pages within are of varying ages and from different sources.

Some of the dossiers smell faintly vanillic as the wood pulp in their paper rots.

There are two photographs of himself. One is familiar from the museum – a tiny portrait in three-quarter view. The hint of a smile on a smooth face. Crisp uniform. Short hair.

The other, he recognizes as the view he's seen reflected in glass just before everything goes black.

There are a few pages of speculation – accurate, for the most part – about his involvement in high profile assassinations.

There's a sheet of test results from chemical analysis done on a few strands of his hair in the early nineteen eighties. A French agency. Not one of HYDRA's. Positive for flunitrazepam. They used to have him take it every two hours on flights. It was the closest he ever came to sleeping.

The last four pages are new. He can smell the toner. The paper is a bright cold white. It lists the contents of the lab hidden in what was intended to be a safe-room in Pierce's home. The specifications for the chair.

Barnes had initially been willing to consider the possibility that Wilson's cooking was as unpalatable as he claimed and it had rendered Captain Rogers ill. But this is the point in the file at which Steve grew nauseated. Barnes finds himself relieved that his stomach is empty, as he is having a similar reaction. He shuts the folder and takes deep, slow breaths.

The captain's cooking smells proficient. The distraction is welcome.

Steve scrambles a dozen eggs and toasts half a loaf of bread before buttering it within an inch of its life. He slices apples and brings a glass of cranberry juice, then sits quietly and makes sure not to stare while Bucky wolfs down his dinner.

When Bucky's plate is clean, Steve wiggles his fingers and asks for Bucky's hand again.

This time, Bucky reaches across the table and offers up his palm. A little tablet of flesh for Steve to tap and scrape with a warm fingertip.

What else?  Steve writes.

Bucky looks over at the counter top and points to the bowl full of apples, then holds up two fingers.

Steve nods and gets up to fetch the fruit. He wonders idly whether Bucky would hold up his thumb and index finger to indicate two if Steve were French or German. He slices up the apples and slides them from the cutting board onto Bucky's plate, then goes to refill Bucky's glass with juice.

When Bucky sets the last sliver of apple between his teeth, Steve raises one eyebrow and gestures to the kitchen cupboards and fridge with a wave of his hand.

Bucky shakes his head no, so Steve leads him back to the bedroom. He puts Bucky's clothes in the dryer and the dull thud of wet fabric and whir of the motor is comforting in its mundane monotony. A familiar and uneventful sound. Domestic. Dull. The sort of thing his listeners deserve to hear.

Then they head to the bathroom where Steve opens a new toothbrush, loads it with toothpaste, runs it quickly under the tap, and hands it to his guest.

He taps, Help yourself to anything you need, into Bucky's right shoulder.

Steve has an absurd desire to laugh. Or maybe the absurdity is genuinely funny and his humor is well-founded – he can't decide. The deadliest assassin of the last seven decades is brushing his teeth in Steve's bathroom in a tee shirt two sizes too big for him. It's strange enough to be a dream.

Steve leaves to turn down the bed. He can hear piss splashing into the toilet not long after. Then water running. The light shutting off. The near-silence where footfalls should fill his ears.

Bucky isn't using his left arm any more than necessary, fearful that the faint mechanical noises might give him away to whoever lurks on the other end of the microphones. He hasn't really had cause, either. He could cut his eggs with his fork and he ate the toast and apples with his fingers.

When Barnes comes out of the bathroom, Steve is already on his back in bed beneath the blankets. Rogers pats the space to his left where the sheets are neatly folded down at a forty-five degree angle. A crisp invitation.

Barnes slides in and wonders why Rogers left his shield in the living room. The man is fearless to the point of self-destruction. Indeed, he'd be dead already if Barnes hadn't pulled him out of the Potomac. Perhaps the captain's strange calm comes from his carelessness. This suicidal sort of comfort. Death comes for Steve Rogers more frequently than mail. To worry about it as much as he should would leave him with little else to do.

Rogers' breaths are slow and deep. He's half asleep already beside the last person who tried to take his life.

It helps Bucky to trust him - Steve's recklessness with himself – knowing that the captain can look death in the face like an old friend because it's that familiar. That Steve has no long con. No endgame for which to endure. His priorities do not lie in building a legacy or influencing outcomes. The world out there begs Steve into its fray, but Steve's world is a small and quiet one. His wants appear to be needs - the things you can't argue with. Food. A roof over his head. Sleep. Bathing. Clothes.

Barnes grabs Steve's hand where it's resting on his ribs.

Steve tilts his head to the side and watches as Bucky taps and scrapes Morse code into his palm.

Is everything in the Smithsonian true? Bucky asks, and then offers his own hand for an answer.

Yes, Steve replies. Apart from you being dead. I never knew that. But not everything that is true is in the Smithsonian.

Steve takes his phone from the nightstand and texts Nat.

Wendy Darling has been out mending, Steve tells her.

You're both ever so much more than twenty, she replies, and Steve wonders where Nat is and whether she ever sleeps. He supposes it isn't really all that late. It's just been a long day. More than one.

Steve sets his phone aside and sinks back into the mattress. He looks to his left, where Bucky's blue eyes are black in the dark, but wide open and waiting for him. Bucky slips his palm under Steve's fingers.

We should sleep, Steve writes.

Bucky nods and Steve gives him an easy smile.

Steve sees the ripples of his expression warping Bucky's features – a brow furrowing and lips parting before pressing tightly together and pulling down at the corners, as if there's something trapped on the tip of Bucky's tongue.

We don't have to sleep, Steve adds, worried.

Steve waits with his hand open for an answer, but nothing comes.

Do you need anything? I can sleep on the sofa if you prefer, Steve writes, leaving his fingertips resting on Bucky's palm.

Bucky shakes his head no, closes his hand around Steve's fingers, and stares up at the ceiling.

Bucky keeps rolling the word We over in his mind.

Rogers used it twice.

We, not You.

A unit.

The captain has issued no orders and made no demands. No attacks, either. Even before, he only fought when provoked. Never pursued any lethal avenues, merely acted to incapacitate.

Barnes sees no machines in the man's quarters meant for making repairs on his arm. He's seen nothing medical beyond the tiny bandages and tubes of ointment that were in the cabinet with the toothpaste. There is no electroshock chair. No cryo chamber. No holding cell. There are no handlers. No doctors.

His meal was hot, fresh, and solid - not measured mush from a cold steel canister. He was offered more if he wanted, which he did, and he got it. Rogers acted as though that was nothing out of the ordinary. No expectation of gratitude. Only an offer of still more.

And now a soft bed and four warm fingers held within his own should there arise some urgent cause to communicate.

The stillness is overwhelming - it's not a thing Barnes has ever been so conscious of. Before, there was a cramped chamber followed by ice and nothingness. No sense of time. Then he would wake, receive his brief, complete his mission, make his report, have his arm repaired, eat, digest, possibly update his training, and then he'd be put away in cryo only to rise what felt like seconds later and do it all again. Over three thousand days of killing, training, and tune-ups. These are the memories that have been surfacing over the last two weeks. Or maybe just one memory: an endless red day.

But now there's warmth and space. The slow trickle of time.

Holiday, he thinks. A word he has never had cause to connect with himself. At least, not that he can recall.

Bucky's whole body tingles, wanting to resist this motionlessness.

He hears every beat of the heart beside him.

Everything smells like the captain.

The bed sags just slightly in the center where the weight of Steve's body has built a dent that is now trying to dump both of them into a single heap. It tips them toward each other. Steve hasn't attempted to resist gravity, so Bucky doesn't bother either.

Cars pass by outside and the dull crackle of tires and purr of engines bounces off the pavement and up brick walls to slip through the window. Bucky listens to all of them. Listens more carefully when one stops and the door opens and shuts. He hears the main door opening downstairs. Hears footsteps on the stairs down the hall in the stairwell. Hears a lock clicking and door opening and shutting one floor up and two doors over. Rogers is sleeping through it all. Nothing unusual, apparently.

Barnes closes his eyes and tries to synchronize his breathing and heartbeat with those of the body beside him in the hope that they'll lead him into sleep. He has no knowledge of how to do it on his own. He was never offered the option.

It takes twenty minutes of mimicking Rogers before Bucky's body remembers and he drifts off.

He wakes six hours later when the captain turns over in his sleep.

Steve's fingers are no longer curled in Bucky's own, but are instead stacked together against Bucky's upper arm. Bucky's palm feels cool now that the digits are gone and the sweat that had gathered between their skin is exposed to the air.

Steve's breath is puffing out against Bucky's neck. Long jets of warm air that ruffle his hair and tickle his cheek.

Bucky tips his head to his right and watches as Steve's lips shift, parting just that little bit farther with every exhalation.

The air Bucky breathes is hot from being in Steve's lungs, and the word communion dips through Bucky's mind like a swallow before darting out the window to disappear as quickly as it came.

The captain is oblivious and defenseless. Barnes knows he could go to the kitchen, grab one of the classic Wüsthofs from the stand on the counter, and cut Steve's throat to complete his original mission.

But somehow it feels like suicide.

The warm breath against his neck would be gone.

And that is unbearable.

And it's all the worse because Bucky doesn't understand why the thought bothers him so deeply.

He supposes it's because this time they asked him to destroy everything he ever was. To kill the only one left in the world who knows him. His last link to his own history - to himself. A test of loyalty. HYDRA's gauge of their own success, measuring whether there was any identity left - any line Barnes wouldn't cross. Any morsel of memory.

Perhaps a safeguard, too - to ensure that there was no one left to help him. No one to give him food and warmth and sleep and quiet and this senseless gift of unwarranted trust.

Rogers is such a strange target. He's not running the world. Not building weapons. He's just a soldier who seems to enjoy disobeying orders and making sure that the rest of the world doesn't have to follow any either... even if that means people are going to make a mess of their lives from time to time.

HYDRA should have wanted to capture the captain and study him, but it seems their worry outweighed their curiosity.

HYDRA's fear makes Bucky feel even more at ease with this odd man. It's a comfort to know that those who lied to him were defeated by Steve. That they feared him.

Steve and his strange allies.

The captain's friends appear to be killers, to a man, but Rogers stands by them anyway.

Another comfort.

Steve and Bucky's hearts are beating only twenty times per minute.

HYDRA's doctors always found it odd that Barnes' pulse measured fifty-eight bpm whenever they checked him. They thought the serum would make his body more efficient and lower his pulse.

And they were right.

But his pulse still rose in stress, which was the state he lived in when he was near his handlers, though he fought hard not to let it show on his face, because exhibiting worry and weakness meant getting wiped.

He was forever fearful of when the next wipe would come. The next frost. His mind was never given time to string any of its own thoughts together. He had no memory of ever being younger than he was now. Everything was whited out with pain, leaving only weaponized thoughts in its wake.

He knows how to kill - with bare hands, with knives, with guns, with tanks, with cars, with jets. How to tell when you're being followed – tails will change their clothes, but they won't have time to switch their shoes, so watch everyone's feet. How to build guns from scratch. How to take them apart. How to make a hit look like an accident. How to make it look like a warning.

His pulse when he's on his feet and walking is twenty-three beats per minute.

So is Steve's.

Bucky appreciates the symmetry.

Bucky's pulse does quicken slightly whenever Rogers taps Morse code into his hand, and he can't work out what his body is is so worried about.

His mind isn't upset.

It's... satisfying, this conspiratorial conversation. His questions are answered. All his needs are offered and met without him having to ask. And the warm pads of fingers against the palm of his hand are... not unwelcome.

When Steve begins to wake, his breathing changes. He sighs and hums in his half-sleep. His eyes slowly flutter open and focus. His lips peel apart and he wants to speak, but stops himself in time and smiles instead.

Good morning, Steve mouths, and Bucky blinks his agreement.

Steve looks down between their bodies to where Bucky's hand is resting atop the sheets. Bucky tips it palm-up and Steve reaches down to write.

Did you sleep?

Bucky nods his head in answer and Steve smiles.

It feels like victory to Barnes. Which is ridiculous. Babies can sleep.

Breakfast? Steve taps, and Bucky nods again.

Bucky follows Steve into the bathroom and they piss one after the other and flush once. Wash their hands at the same time to conceal the sounds of the second person in Steve's apartment.

Steve puts on music to help obscure the noises coming from his rooms again. Marvin Gaye.

In the kitchen, Steve waves Bucky into a seat, then goes to fetch a glass from the cupboard and a carton from the fridge. He hands Bucky a glass of orange juice and then pulls eggs and milk out of the fridge as he returns the O.J.

Bucky raises the cup to his lips and realizes Steve could have poisoned him last night and he never would have known it. It didn't even occur to him to suspect it or to look out for it.

He decides to keep taking his chances - he drinks.

The taste is bright and lively on his tongue, washing away the stale thickness of sleep and waking him up a bit wider.

Steve is heating up a griddle and measuring flour. Spilling a bit of sugar on the counter. Absentmindedly picking up the granules with the pad of his thumb and then licking them off. Plucking a few lingering stems off of some blueberries before tipping the fruit into the batter.

Bucky hears the sizzle of the liquid hitting the hot iron and then smells the toasted wheat of the pancakes cooking.

When Steve flips the flapjacks, the berries that went into the mix a deep frosted blue begin to bleed up through the surface in an improbable shade of pink.

Bucky feels an urge to press his fingers into the color and set it to his tongue as Steve had done with the sugar.

Steve puts their plates down in unison and goes to get two glasses of water that swiftly begin to sweat all over the table. He puts more fresh fruit on their plates. Raspberries and strawberries. Colors, names, and scents so sweet and safe. Butter and syrup are melting and swirling down the stacks of pancakes, almost too picturesque to eat.

But not quite.

Steve's lips are soon stained from the fruit. Bucky knows his own mouth must be in the same state; he licks it carefully so that it will tell him what the captain's lips taste like. It couldn't hurt to know.

Bucky sits quietly while Steve washes the dishes. Follows when Steve goes to fetch last night's clothes from the dryer. Stares as Steve folds them smooth between big hands and then sets them in a dresser drawer. He makes no motion that Bucky should put anything else on, and he doesn't get dressed himself.

Steve holds out his finger and Bucky offers his hand.

Need anything? Steve writes, and Bucky looks like he's considering it, but is uncertain of the specifics. The parameters of his options.

I can go to the store, Steve offers.

Bucky's mouth tightens and his brow furrows as he shakes his head no. He's still looking down at their hands while Steve stars helplessly at his friend's unhappy face.

Bucky does need clothes. New shoes. Probably a pair of gloves if he wants to avoid attention - gloves in summer are still less conspicuous than a one-of-a-kind weapons-grade prosthesis.

Steve will figure something out. Bucky can just borrow more of his things if necessary.

Steve heads back out to the living room and sinks down onto the couch. Bucky silently follows suit, opting to sit as close to Steve as possible without actually landing in his lap. Steve pulls an enormous art history book off of the coffee table and flops it open so that it's perched across their thighs. He sits, occasionally reading over Bucky's shoulder, but more often just looking at his friend's profile and watching his eyes dart back and forth on their way down the columns of text.

Steve makes an unhappy sound three hours later when he hears his phone ringing in the bedroom, then huffs and gets up off the couch.

“Hey, Sam,” Steve says.

“How's the gut?”

“Full of pancakes.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Steve agrees.

“Shoulder?”

“Better than it should be.”

“Leg?”

“Tight, but not any trouble.”

“You planning anything stupid?”

“I promised I'd be good for a day, remember?”

“Doesn't mean you're not planning something,” Sam says.

“The plan is to put on Astral Weeks and lie flat on my back.”

“Astral what?”

“Weeks. Van Morrison,” Steve clarifies.

“Before my time,” Sam says.

“After mine. And isn't Marvin Gaye a little before your time?”

“Yeah, but for Marvin Gaye I make exceptions.”

“I can't believe you had me listening to Trouble Man when I coulda been listening to What's Going On. What the hell was that, Wilson? I thought we were friends.”

“Just keeping you on your toes.”

“Uh huh,” Steve laughs.

“You want me to stop by after work?” Sam asks. “I can pick up a pizza or something on my way.”

“I, uh... I gotta figure some stuff out first,” Steve says. “But maybe tomorrow, if you're free then?”

“Yeah, that works. You okay?”

“Yeah, just...”

“It's all right. Gimme a call tomorrow and let me know if you're still up for it, huh?”

“I will, thanks.”

“No sweat. Later, man.”

“Bye, Sam.”

Bucky follows an hour later when Steve gets up off the couch again, puts Astral Weeks on the turntable – and, yeah, vinyl sounds a hell of a lot better than digital when your ears are as good as Steve's are - and stretches out in bed.

Slim Slow Slider always makes it difficult for Steve to breathe. Makes him grateful that it's the last track, because nothing could ever hope to follow that. Just the merciful hiss of the speakers after the record runs out.

The song buries him in guilt and reminds him of Bucky. Makes him imagine how hard it must have been for Buck - having to watch his best friend dying a little bit more every day when they were young. Steve knows he religiously made it worse by getting into fights. And Bucky was always so goddamn nice about it. He wouldn't shout. He was so patient. Steve doesn't know how. If their places had been reversed, Steve would have been screaming at Bucky to take better care of himself. Steve wonders if Bucky's calm came from denial. From his refusal to accept that Steve was doomed and damaged in the first place, pretending instead that Steve was just one of the boys.

Now Steve sees Bucky pinned beneath that huge steel beam. A fox in a snare, still fighting and never once feeling sorry for himself. Never worried for the sweethearted handsome man he can't remember being.

Steve decides he'll handle the worrying for both of them now, just as Bucky did the worrying when they were young. A trade they made back then with no memory of when they had done it. So swift and subtle not even God caught the sleight of hand.

Lately Steve suspects He was never watching them anyway. Which would be for the best, because the alternative is that He's a sadist.

Steve breads and fries six chicken breasts for their supper. That seems a bit spare, so he makes a huge salad with candied walnuts and dried cherries to go with it.

When he found out how easy it was to candy nuts, he side-eyed his iPad. He couldn't quite believe it. Take a tablespoon of butter, a quarter cup of sugar, and cup of nuts, throw them all into the pan over medium heat, stir until everything is caramelized and coated, then toss it on parchment and separate it quick so it doesn't harden into one big blob. He learned that last bit after the first time. The clump was delicious, but not ideal for sprinkling on top of a salad, which was the excuse Steve gave himself for making so many candied walnuts in the first place.

Bucky's eyes widen at his first taste of the cherries and nuts. He eats around them after that so that there are lots of them left toward the end. Saving the best for last. Bucky used to do the same thing when they were young, too. Steve wonders if Bucky remembers, but doesn't ask.

They shower together to make one noise. Bucky stares at the bullet holes in Steve's stomach and back. The knife-wound in his right shoulder. The messy scars in the left thigh.

Steve points to the bruises that circle the joint of Bucky's right arm and then takes Bucky's hand.

Does it still hurt? Steve taps.

Bucky shakes his head no and examines Steve's face.

The cuts and scrapes have nearly faded, but Steve is soaking wet and it looks like he's been drowning again. The sight soured Bucky's stomach the first time he saw it, and it still unsettles him.

Bucky starts to use the soap to wash his hair. Steve gently stops him and redirects his hands to his sides. Steve gets the shampoo and pours it into his own palm, then reaches up to lather Bucky's hair.

Close your eyes, Steve taps into Bucky's scalp, like a hen softly scolding a chick.

Bucky does. His features go slack soon after.

Steve knows why. He loves going in to get his hair cut. The stylist washes your hair for you first and it feels wonderful to have new hands doing something so familiar. And the hands are always so careful, touching you like you'll break. The tenderness makes you feel like you just might. You close your eyes, tip your head back, and offer up your throat in a room full of scissors, razors, and strangers... and no harm comes to you. And everything smells clean and soft.

Steve goes in for a trim at least twice a month. Sometimes more if he needs the touch.

Steve lifts the shower head out of its cradle and rinses Bucky's hair. The tiny jets of water tickle his scalp and his eyebrows lift.

When Steve works conditioner through Bucky's strands from root to scalp Bucky's head rolls on his neck. Steve steadies it with his hands. He wishes he had more to offer as he rinses Bucky's hair again.

You can open your eyes, Steve signs.

Bucky does. His eyelashes are wet and gathered into points. Beads of water are perched on them like dew. Steve wants to lick them off. Wants to feel Bucky's beard drag against his lips. It's been so long. He wonders if Bucky knows what love is anymore. Such a nebulous thing to begin with. Complicated. Wild and messy. Necessary.

Bucky's eyes are fixed on the fresh red line just below Steve's right collarbone again.

Steve twists to grab the soap, swirls it between his fingers, and hands it to his friend to take Bucky's mind off of bloodshed.

When they settle in bed, Bucky keeps offering his hand, palm open and pressing up against Steve's fingertips. Wanting the answer to a question he hasn't asked.

Steve taps What can I get for you?

Bucky just holds his hand out again and shakes it once in answer. Steve traces the lines in Bucky's palm and runs his fingertips over callouses while he tries to think of something to say that will make sense and won't be pointless or upsetting. Steve is fearful of triggering memories in his friend because he has no way of knowing whether they'll be good or bad. But he doesn't want to be banal either. Bucky deserves better.

Steve gets distracted by Bucky's breathing before he can come up with any conversation.

Ragged.

Loud.

Fast.

Are you ok? Steve taps.

Bucky looks up with half-lidded eyes and nods swiftly, then nudges his hand up into Steve's fingertips.

Steve resumes his tracing and rubbing. Drags his nails lightly across Bucky's palm and hears a quiet gasp. Lightly pinches the little webs of flesh that span the gaps between the fingers and pulls a whimper from Bucky's throat.

Steve stops and Bucky looks up, fearful.

Steve gives him a smile and holds his finger up to his lips then gets out of bed and pulls out a chair. He climbs up, opens the light fixture in the ceiling, and gets the mic out of the housing. Then he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.

In the living room, Steve grabs his pocketknife from the bowl on the shelf by the front door, flips the flathead screwdriver out of it, and takes the grate off of the air vent near the floor to remove the mic that's hidden behind it.

In the kitchen, Steve crushes the microphones with a nutcracker and then drinks a glass of water while he waits.

At first, all he can hear is the hum of his refrigerator.

After three minutes, there are drawers opening in the unit next door. The rattle of a chain and the clicking of two locks. Then footsteps in the hall. And, finally, there's the knock on the door.

Steve walks silently to his entryway and peeks through the peephole. He sees agent thirteen, warped in his fish-eyed view of the hallway. He flips his own locks before cracking the door and blocking it with his body.

“Can I borrow a cup of flour?” she asks, trying for breezy, but coming off guilty.

Steve's whole face is faintly frowning. She knows he knows.

“Did I miss any?” Steve asks, and she sighs.

“No.”

“Then everything's fine.”

“They're for your protection.”

“Are microphones stopping bullets now?” Steve asks, unsmiling and tired. “That's what I figured,” he says, when he receives no response.

He shuts the door and locks it. He knows his days of privacy here are numbered. They'll turn off his water or his electricity. Claim the problem is on his end. Manufacture an excuse to send someone inside so that they can get a look at him and bug his rooms again. A plumber or electrician with hands that are too smooth and nails that are too clean. A haircut that's too expensive. A box of tools that haven't seen enough use.

But, for the moment, no one gets to eavesdrop on this. Bucky's sighs will be his own.

Steve's bed is empty when he gets back to it. His skin pulls tight into goosebumps and all the fine blond hair on his body stands on end.

He crosses the room and pulls the curtains to look out the window, but sees only two young women on the street below, walking an enormous dog together.

Steve watches the dog to see if it notices anything unusual as it passes beneath his window.

Nothing.

He sinks to his knees with his elbows on the sill and lets his breath shake out of his lungs. He's not sure whether he should wait or search. If he leaves, he'll have to sweep for bugs all over again. And he can't go hunting through DC without looking suspicious. And he's usually being watched no matter what he's doing. And Bucky could be anywhere for any length of time. He could be ten feet away and Steve might not even see him. He's been alive all this time and Steve didn't have the decency to know it. Wasn't there for him. Let Zola take Bucky and turn him into a toy. Twice.

Steve feels like there's some flaw in his soul. That it should have told him Bucky was alive. That he should have felt it in his bones. Should have leaped off the train and hauled Bucky back up.

Steve's ignorance on that count shakes his faith more than Thor and Asgard ever could.

How could I not know? is a question he asks himself almost hourly.

Steve wonders if he should have taken the continued beating of his own heart as the evidence that his best friend was still breathing. He's always felt he couldn't live without Bucky. Maybe he's right. And maybe it's mutual.

He shuts the curtains with a sigh and turns to sit on the floor while the cool night air pours in through the screen and chills the skin on the back of his neck.

His right shoulder aches from the tension in his body. It's healing well, but the tissue is still tight from novelty, scarring, and disuse.

It's one of those moments where Steve thinks it might feel good to cry. Not necessarily during, but possibly after. That maybe he could release something. Relieve his mind. At present he has just enough self-control left in him that it can be a choice. He can succumb to it and release all this toxic misery and tension through tears and choked sobs, or he can take twenty deep breaths and remind himself it could be worse.

He hears Bucky before he sees him, walking out of the darkened bathroom.

Steve's smile is wavering. He's laughing silently at himself for overlooking the obvious. His eyes are wet, but not so wet that they'll spill over. The tears will evaporate. For the moment they merely blur his vision.

Steve climbs to his feet and slides back into bed, patting the pillow next to him. His body tilts as Bucky lies down beside him. Steve lets the dipping of the mattress lead him to his left as he rolls onto his side.

Bucky is on his back with his hands folded over his stomach and his head tipped toward Steve.

Steve stares at the pulse in Bucky's neck.

Slightly elevated. Just like his own.

Steve wills his muscles to go slack and sags slightly into the mattress.

He waits until he's taken a dozen deep breaths, then slowly reaches for the inside of Bucky's elbow and codes Sorry. Where were we?

Bucky's gaze darts down to his own right hand.

Steve smiles in the dark and dips his index finger into the warmth of a cupped palm. He draws a spiral from the outside in, then reverses it until his nail is bouncing along the lines at the bottoms of the fingers. He slowly traces each digit, like a child drawing a turkey, and Bucky inhales a little sharply every time Steve brushes the sensitive skin near the palm.

Bucky closes his eyes, shutting down one sense to let the others take over. Focusing on the drag of smooth short fingernails.

Not a scrape, but some sort of tickle.

Not wounding.

Bucky wonders if that means the touch is healing.

Not pain.

Perhaps pleasure.

Steve follows the creases in the palm and then lightly scratches along the tendons on the underside of the wrist. He tilts his fingers so that only the pads are skating over the crepey flesh on the inner elbow. Bucky shivers at how clearly his body perceives these touches. Steve's hand drifts down again, flattened against Bucky's arm. More surface area in contact – the whole of Steve's hand coasting along the limb, curved to its contours until their palms are pressed together. Steve brushes the edge of Bucky's pinky with his thumb and feels Bucky return the gesture.

“'For saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch,'” Bucky recites, and then his eyes open in confusion over what his mouth has just done.

“'And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,'” Steve finishes, almost to himself.

Bucky's head turns fast. He feels like Steve can see his thoughts.

“It's just Shakespeare,” Steve soothes. “Romeo and Juliet. We read it in high school.”

Bucky frowns slightly. He can't remember a classroom or a teacher. He waits and hopes for the rest of the words to surface. When nothing is forthcoming, he pushes his palm up against Steve's hand to spur him onto more touching.

Steve hums and obliges him, rubbing his way up Bucky's arm, kneading and squeezing the muscles. He slides his fingers under the sleeve of the too-big borrowed tee shirt and cups Bucky's shoulder, then reaches over the cloth, cuts across the collarbones, wraps around the neck, and rides it up behind Bucky's ear. Bucky moans when Steve's fingers thread through his hair. He tips his head toward Steve to free up more of his scalp. Steve takes the hint and combs the strands with his fingers until he begins to wonder whether Bucky has fallen asleep.

Bucky's breath is slow. His pulse is low and steady. His eyes are closed and the muscles in his face are lax. But then there's a soft noise in the back of his throat, so Steve presses in a little tighter and massages Bucky's head. After a few minutes of this, Bucky turns his face to his left to let Steve do his right side. Steve doesn't have to bite back his smile with Bucky's eyes turned away from him like this. He lets himself grin at the back of an increasingly-tousled head.

When Bucky is satisfied, he straightens, and Steve wonders what to do next. When he starts to take his hand away, Bucky opens his eyes and purses his lips in a petite scowl.

Steve decides to stick with hair, for lack of a better idea. He arranges Bucky's eyebrows with the tip of his ring finger, gently smoothing the miniscule strands, following the direction of the growth. The furrows in Bucky's forehead flatten with the tiny strokes of Steve's fingertip.

Steve draws the rest of Bucky's features the same way. Little curving touches that melt the tension from the flesh beneath them. When Steve traces Bucky's ears, he can hear his friend's breathing pick up. He smiles and runs his fingers through Bucky's whiskers the way he did with Bucky's scalp. The hard line of the jaw shifts and the skin is pulled taut as Bucky tips his head back to invite more. Steve cautiously puts his hand on Bucky's throat, fearful of receiving the same treatment two hundred times harder again. But Bucky doesn't tense or move or make any unhappy sounds. His eyes are closed and he's taking swift breaths through his mouth. Steve relaxes and listens to the faint whispering scratch of Bucky's beard as it brushes and catches on his fingertips. It feels bristly and wonderful with the silky skin peeking through to tease Steve's nerves every now and again.

Bucky makes a small sound when Steve touches his mustache and Steve smiles and very carefully shifts his hand to touch the ends of Bucky's eyelashes. Bucky takes a slow breath and holds it, waiting motionless. Steve pets the fragile skin of Bucky's eyelids. It slides like silk beneath the pad of his pinky finger. He draws a line down the center of Bucky's face, loving the straight smooth glide down the nose and the swooping dip to the lips.

Bucky gasps at the last bit. To feel his mouth being brushed by warm skin. His lower lip catches on Steve's fingertip and is dragged down. Steve has just opened Bucky's body without wounding him. A bloodless parting of flesh. Bucky had forgotten such things were possible for him.

Steve keeps moving, letting his finger flow over Bucky's chin before bouncing across the Adam's apple. He drags the touch farther down Bucky's neck, dipping into the hollow at the base of the throat and then trailing along the sternum, gently tugging the hair in its path.

Steve's finger feels like a plumb bob above Bucky's heart. A balanced tease between his breasts. Each rosy nipple is equally greedy for touch and is uniformly denied its desire.

But other things lie on this line of longitude. Hungrier, wilder, and far more desperate.

Steve's fingertip passes the solar plexus and catches the edge of the sheet, pushing it down. He's going to hook Bucky by the navel and then swing back up to tickle Bucky's ribs and flanks. He wants to see if the reflexive response is still there – teeth bared in a grin and huffs of laughter.

But another response cuts off Steve's experiment.

Bucky curls in on himself just slightly and then keens. His breath comes in gasps.

Steve looks down and sees the sheets tented over Bucky's hips. He had been staring at his friend's face - watching Bucky's lips part and his lashes flutter.

In hindsight, Steve supposes he should have anticipated this.

He can smell semen soaking through cotton.

He thinks of spinal cord injuries. The way bodies rewire themselves, supplanting the genitals so that touching the lips or breasts can incite an orgasm.

But Bucky's back is not broken. His nerves are simply starving. He's had no pleasant touch. No time to himself. Little sense of self at all.

To a stomach that's always been empty, a mouthful feels like a feast.

Steve flattens his hand and gently rubs Bucky's belly at the high-point up in the arch of the ribs, with his thumb hitched on the xiphoid process. He dips his head to kiss Bucky's shoulder out of habit – for Steve, it hasn't been all that long.

He will not shrink from this or wrench himself away. Won't make his friend feel guilty or ashamed.

Steve knows that sex is not love. Which is not to say that it can't be. But, at its most basic level, sex is a need. Of a piece with food and warmth. So little girls grind against their blankets and wake themselves up shaking while boys have wet dreams that leave their shorts sticky. Nature gets her way.

Bucky lies there panting and can't believe that all this was kept from him. Can't believe he could live without it.

He all but begged every time they put him in the cryo chamber without understanding why. And, even then, he was only asking them to look at him. Just to meet his gaze and give him something to hold onto as he went under. Something to focus on beyond the sting and ache of the ice. A small reward for another job well done. But, at best, they'd glance up for a few seconds as he tapped on the glass – just to make sure he wasn't thinking of punching his way out. Once they were satisfied that he was merely fussing, they'd go back to their charts.

Bucky remembers one doctor who was different.

He wasn't one of HYDRA's.

A last minute emergency stand in. Kidnapped and instructed to stitch Bucky's scalp back together. The man kept apologizing for lacking anesthetic. He was incredibly careful with his stitching. Bucky can still feel the faintest hint of the scar under his hair on the center of the back of his head. The perfectly spaced dots where the needle and thread went through. Like braille, immortalizing that gentleness. Giving Bucky evidence that there was kindness in the world for him once. He still can't remember who had hit him on the head, or with what. But he remembers the doctor asking if he was all right. Asking his name and getting no answer, not realizing that he didn't have one in those days. Touching Bucky so thoughtfully.

And, once the wounds were stitched shut, Pierce told Bucky to kill this man. Bucky thought it was a joke – he knew such things existed. Or a mistake. There had been no brief. No planning. No prep. And he knew he would be wiped and put on ice without being fed if he injured one of his coworkers - he had learned that lesson the hard way early on.

Barnes had narrowed his eyes as he stared at Pierce, waiting for the man to smile or wave him off with his hand and give some indication that all was actually well. They were clearly in no danger. And they needed a medic.

Pierce rolled his eyes and shot the doctor in the back of the head before telling the technician wipe him.

Pierce learned his lesson. He tried to get Barnes to kill Rogers before Steve had the chance to show him tenderness. Barnes has to admit that that was terribly efficient. Pierce always was a clever one.

Now Bucky wonders if someone else is will try to come and take kindness away from him again. Steve is hopeful and trusting. Bucky worries Steve won't see it coming, so he decides he'll watch out for it himself.

Steve gives a soft parting pat to Bucky's belly and then sits up in bed. He goes to the bathroom, turns on the water, waits for it to run warm, and then wets a washcloth and grabs a small towel.

“Here,” Steve says, very softly, offering the cloth. “So you can wipe yourself off.”

Bucky flinches like he's been slapped. His mouth turns down and his lips part slightly. His brow twists up in the center as his eyes go wide and watery. The picture of betrayal.

“What's wrong?” Steve whispers, falling to his knees by the bedside. “What did I say?”

Bucky can't bring himself to speak the word. He takes three deep breaths and then holds out his finger and codes W-I-P-E into Steve's palm.

Steve feels the tremor in Bucky's fingers. He makes a mental note to strike the word wipe from his vocabulary and, henceforth, to be as precise with language as humanly possible.

“I'm sorry, Buck, I didn't mean it,” Steve breathes, and the tremor in Bucky's hand is echoed in Steve's voice. “I misspoke. I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise. This is wet terrycloth. It's for you if you want it. So that you can...” Steve skips clean and wash – too much like wipe - “... remove the semen that's on your skin if you'd like to. This is a towel for you to dry off with afterward. And I can get you another pair of pajama pants to put on.”

Bucky slowly relaxes at these words. Answers have rarely been so straightforward or forthcoming before. The novelty is encouraging. He takes a few more deep breaths and then nods and tugs his pants down before taking the offered washcloth. Steve goes to fetch fresh bottoms and grant Bucky some privacy. He tosses the wet clothes in the laundry basket on his way to the kitchen to get them glasses of water.

Steve wishes he could unwind time. The world always seems to get everything wrong.

He knows how raw you are after an orgasm. Your whole being is open to comfort and bonding. Your state of sluggish helplessness feels strangely welcome. And, somehow, Steve's tongue stumbled onto the worst possible word to say while Bucky was in that of all states.

Steve wants to cry again. He wonders if he's strong enough for this. But there's no one else for it, so he has no choice but to try.

It could be worse, he tells himself, and then reminds himself of all the ways that that consolation rings true.

Bucky could be dead.

I could have killed him.

I could have died when I crashed the jet and then there'd be no one left here now to help him.

We could still be working for HYDRA.

His mask could have stayed on and I never would have known.

He could have been completely gone inside.

He could have let me drown.

He could have doubted everything I said.

Someone else could have found him before he got here.

He could have hidden himself away someplace forever.

Steve gently offers the glass of water, holding it toward Bucky.

Bucky shakes his head.

“You drink first,” Bucky whispers.

Steve nods. He has to will himself not to cry as he drains half of one glass and then half of the other.

Satisfied with Steve's demonstration, Bucky finishes the drinks. Steve takes the empty cups and sets them on the nightstand before he tips himself into bed. He keeps his left hand above the blankets, palm up, in case Bucky wants to hold it again, or code his thoughts into it.

Bucky tries to follow Steve into sleep as he did the night before, but it isn't working. Steve's breathing is fast and irregular and his pulse is high. The bed shakes every now and again, jolted by the swift stretching of Steve's ribs.

When Bucky tips his head to the side to see what's wrong with the captain, he sees a shiny track down the side of Steve's face.

Tears.

Bucky thinks of them as the brain's way of bleeding. A signifier of injury and, therefore, evidence of pain. The opposite of pleasure.

Bucky dips his finger into Steve's palm and slowly draws a spiral.

  


6  I Seem To Think A Lot About The Things That I Forgot

 

When Steve wakes, Bucky's fingers are draped over his own.

It's very early morning. Still dim and grey. The street outside is quiet. It makes the world feel smaller and older.

Bucky's eyes are open and watching when Steve turns his head, but his gaze is still slightly guarded.

Steve wants to vomit.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” Steve chokes, voice thick with sleep and strain. “Don't ever let me hurt you.”

Steve looks like he's going to start crying again, so Bucky pets the inside of Steve's wrist with the tip of his third finger to soothe him and distract him.

Steve closes his eyes, but his face is still taut. So is his neck.

Bucky steps back inside himself to assess the situation.

Steve gave me pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, and pain.

Pain is an outlier.

The odds are against it in some way.

Against it being deliberate, he decides.

And its delivery was different.

Not an action, but a word.

Not intentional, and therefore accidental.

A mistake.

An imprecision in the verb's definition.

English is at fault in this, Bucky ventures.

English and Pierce.

Primarily Pierce.

And the chair.

And the technicians.

HYDRA.

Possibly history. But, no - Steve is in a history museum. Steve simply took the wrong turn in this forked language and wandered into this mess unsuspecting. He had no way of knowing that HYDRA had amended the meaning of that particular word.

Not Steve's fault, Bucky concludes.

He rolls over and reaches for the fresh tracks of wetness that are once again streaking Steve's cheek. Steve's skin is a blotchy pink below the chrome of Bucky's fingers. But, if Bucky could see the other side, the surface of Steve's skin would be mirrored in the metal, making Bucky's hand look rosy and warm. Making him Steve.

Bucky wipes away the tears that HYDRA spilled with the arm that HYDRA built.

He repeats the right version of the word over and over in his mind until Wipe becomes What you do to Steve's cheeks when he weeps.

Bucky finds it strangely satisfying to have wrenched this little victory from the jaws of his past. To make something his own. To mend it.

It's also strangely satisfying to stroke Steve's cheek.

And Steve smells sleepy and warm - if it's possible for such things to have scents.

Bucky reasons it must be.

Sleep smells like half-dry puddles of saliva soaking into cotton. Like the oil that has pooled in Steve's pores overnight, making his features shine. Like fading perfume from shampoo. Like the musk from under Steve's arms and between his legs that has settled into the mattress from all the nights he's spent in this spot.

Warmth is more complicated.

But this isn't the warmth of the sun. This is a warmth that can be touched. A warmth that matters. No one ever needs to worry about touching the sun. It's a distant constant.

Steve smells warm because he's alive. The scent of warmth is the scent of breath. Flesh can grow cold from exposure or death, but breath can only be warm.

Bucky can smell Steve's breath.

It still bears a trace of mint from when he brushed his teeth. And there's a hint of rust in it, from the iron in his blood, maybe. It's also very faintly floral - like that note at the heart of some flowers that smells just slightly like shit.

It's... nice, Bucky decides, though the word feels flimsy, ill-fitting, and imprecise. And subjective, which is an unforgivable sin - English is still sitting very low in Bucky's esteem. Nevertheless...

Nice... Bucky, thinks again, mulling the word over.

The opposite of mean.

The cousin of kind.

And, yes, Steve has been kind.

But it's so hard to quantify these things – they come with equally subjective explanations: generous, loving, compassionate, gentle, humane, affectionate, considerate, good, benevolent, helpful.

Nice and kind compared to what or whom?

Everyone and everything, in Steve's case, Bucky ventures.

But does Steve smell nice because he is nice? or is he nice because he smells this way? or are the two entirely unrelated.

Bucky hates this. It's impossible. There is never any proper proof in language. He prefers numbers. Things add up or they don't, and you know the score right away.

Steve rolls toward Bucky and brings palpable warmth with him.

Temperature is something Bucky respects because it can be measured, as can its effects.

Ninety-eight point six.

Perfect.

Measurements can't be argued with.

They're objective.

It's so much easier to say that the tip of Steve's nose is two point three centimeters from the tip of Bucky's nose than it is to explain why it ispreferable that Steve's nose is there rather than, say, two point four centimeters away. Or why Bucky's satisfaction increases as his distance from Captain Rogers decreases.

The distance between their mouths is seven centimeters.

A fact.

Easy.

What's suddenly become difficult – or, at the very least, irritating - is relativity.

Seven centimeters is nearly nothing on a universal scale. Almost irrelevant.

But, at an atomic level, it's an enormity.

Bucky feels himself to be allied with the atoms on this matter.

He racks his brain to find out why only to discover his leg has attempted to provide a proof.

A swap has been made. Zero contact and objective distance have been swapped for zero distance and objective contact.

The gap between Bucky's left inner thigh and Steve's right hip is now zero because Bucky slung the limb up there at some point. He doesn't remember doing it. He's also holding the front of Steve's shirt in his left hand, bunched up between their chests. The sensors are telling him there's wetness. He must have transferred Steve's tears to his tee shirt when he shifted his hand... whenever that was.

The zero on the inside of Bucky's thigh is becoming more remarkable by the minute.

0 distance > 0 contact.

The phrase Less is more bubbles up between Bucky's ears.

English again. But blatantly a lie this time... which is honest, as far as English goes. The language isn't even trying to hide how inaccurate it is.

Bucky grudgingly respects that.

And another zero has appeared under Bucky's left arm and at the base of his left shoulder blade: Steve is holding onto him.

And Bucky realizes that if he drapes his left arm over Steve's neck, he can make zeros appear there. And if he leans forward, more zeros materialize all along their chests. And if he wedges his face under Steve's cheek, he gets still more zeros and his nose is in Steve's armpit, which is available due to Steve using his own bicep as a pillow.

And now all the zeros are also a tidy ninety-eight point six degrees and Bucky can breathe in the scents of niceness and kindness and Captain Steven Grant Rogers.

He's willing to concede that those three things might be the same.

And still he wonders why zero distance is better than zero contact.

And now he's worried that he's just ruined numbers.

So he goes back into his head.

Why do I prefer to touch him?

Is it for my own protection?

Am I trying to keep an eye on him in my sleep?

What could that tell me? I already know where he is. He knows I know. He knows he can't hide anything. He never seems to try anyway. And he's always unarmed.

Am I trying to conserve energy?

He mulls that last one over.

Staying warm by sharing Steve's body heat.

Burning fewer calories.

But there's a kitchen full of food I'm allowed to eat.

I'm covered in blankets.

I can get more clothing from the dresser.

And it's warm, indoors and out.

He doesn't have the excuse of needing Steve's heat.

But Steve doesn't have the excuse of needing his, either.

So, maybe Steve knows the answer.

“Why am I touching you?” Bucky whispers, though his voice is already heavily muffled by Steve's armpit.

“I can only speculate,” Steve answers, very softly, because his lips are right next to Bucky's ear. “Do you want to stop?”

Bucky shakes his head no.

“Why are you touching me?” Bucky tries.

“Do you want me to stop?” Steve murmurs, and Bucky shakes his head again.

Steve rubs Bucky's back and mulls it over.

“Touching is... It's a need, you know?” Steve says. “Like sleep, and food, and water. And I want you to have what you need... But I guess that's only part of it,” Steve sighs. “I could hire a masseuse to come in here and touch you.” Bucky's leg tightens around Steve's hip. “But I'd rather do it myself,” Steve soothes, and the thigh over his hip slowly goes limp.

“To keep the masseuse safe,” Bucky guesses, and Steve huffs a tiny laugh.

“That's a good idea, actually, but it wasn't my reason. I like it when you touch me, and I like touching you. Feels good. Seems like it makes you feel good, too, and I like that. But, if I'm wrong, you stop me and tell me, 'kay?”

Bucky nods and feels the hair under Steve's arm tickling his nose.

Steve feels Bucky's body relaxing against him. He runs his hand up and down the whole of Bucky's spine and Bucky goes slack from head to toe. His body shifts with the motion of Steve's hand.

“You can tell me if there are other things you want, too,” Steve murmurs. “You want me to roast a turkey at four in the morning, just say the word. You want a back rub, a sandwich, a sweater, a bath, a nap, a beer, a book, a whatever - you let me know, and I'll do my best to make it happen.”

Bucky makes a tiny nod.

“And,” Steve begins, and he can already feel his voice getting thick and giving him away. “If you want to leave, you're free to go. And if you want me to watch your back while you make your way, I will. And if you want me to leave you alone, I'll do that too.”

Bucky shakes his head from side to side.

“I'll keep a roof over your head for the rest of my life if you'll let me,” Steve breathes.

Bucky doesn't want to go anywhere.

He has a friend.

It feels like an objective attained.

But Steve has other friends, Bucky remembers. What if he needs to hold someone else?

“Is this what friends do these days?” Bucky whispers, and Steve hums faintly, uncertain what Bucky's asking. “You do this with Sam and Natasha?” Bucky clarifies, squeezing Steve softly for emphasis.

“Oh,” Steve breathes. “No. Well, sometimes Nat and I pretend to do stuff like this when it's useful... but, no. I don't do this with anyone else.”

Bucky pulls his head out of Steve's armpit.

His whole face is frowning and lips are pursed for speech.

Steve hates seeing the reluctance and worry that appear on Bucky's face any time he wants to ask a question. So Steve sets the tips of their noses together to distract them both from the past and anchor them in the present. A tiny new touch that speaks only of now.

Bucky slides the right side of his nose down the right side of Steve's nose, nesting the features and allowing the corners of their mouths to press together.

“What's on your mind, Buck?” Steve whispers, and rubs the space between Bucky's shoulder blades.

“Has this happened before?” Bucky asks, shifting his mouth to his right so that their lips are centered, rendering every word a kiss.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “A lot when we were kids. We'd put the sofa cushions on the floor at your folks' house and we'd sleep just like this. When we got older, we stopped for a while because... it wasn't safe. Then my mom died, and you stayed with me that night... and I stayed with youthe night after her funeral. When we met up again during the war, we did this every chance we got.”

“It was safe during the war?” Bucky asks, quietly incredulous – and pleased with himself for landing on two words that begin with W, because pronouncing that letter warps the lips into excellent kisses.

“Safety is relative,” Steve murmurs.

And Bucky follows that word back into his head again.

Relative.

Friendship is relative, too, it seems.

Different things between different people.

Always kind, but not always equal.

It doesn't appear that the latter is problematic. It's expected that different pairings of people will have affections of varying intensities.

Bucky is relieved that he won't need to share this part of Steve with Steve's other friends, and that he won't have to share this part of himself with anyone else. It feels like he's standing on the summit of something.

But he wants to make sure.

“Is this... Am I,” Bucky tries, and Steve gives Bucky's back a swirling coax of a stroke. Bucky remembers one of Steve's words. “Are we friends to a greater or lesser degree than you are with your other friends?”

And Bucky is pleased that We begins with W. It seems apt.

“That's a question that needs two answers,” Steve tells him. “I can only give you my end. You have to decide your half for yourself. But, for my part, greater, Buck. You're my best friend. Always have been.”

Bucky's ribs stretch with a quick breath at this confirmation of his victory. And there's a W  in always, so the win came with a kiss from the captain.

“And I know you don't remember it,” Steve continues. “So I'll just ask you to take my word for it when it comes to the past... and give me the chance to earn it again for the present.”

“I will,” Bucky whispers, landing hard on the top of that last word to press his intentions into his best friend's lips. Then he stuffs his face back into Steve's underarm.

Steve hums and rubs Bucky's back until they're both asleep again.

They wake late after sleeping well. The panels of Bucky's arm have left their imprint on the right side of Steve's neck where the limb was draped for almost four hours straight.

Bucky is etched into Steve's skin. Not with a wound. It will fade fast. But, for now, it's like a signature. Like Bucky has written his name in his best friend's flesh.

When Bucky looks at his left arm he can see the slightly stippled haze of oil dulling the metal - the print made by Steve's neck.

The exchange of evidence is exciting to Bucky. He feels his heart beating a little faster than it needs to be.

Bucky follows Steve into the shower again.

Steve finds it familiar from the war. It's a comfort to have Bucky there beside him. Exposed and soaked to the bone. Eyes closed against the soap.

Steve supposes things from the war shouldn't be soothing. But these days there are a lot of things that shouldn't be happening which, nevertheless, are.

I shouldn't really still be breathing, Steve thinks.

Steve combs Bucky's hair afterward, starting at the tips and working up to the roots to avoid snags and tugs. He trains it back away from Bucky's face, curious to see which way it will fall when it dries. He combs Bucky's beard and mustache, too, just to give more of Bucky's skin a pleasant scratching. Bucky hums when Steve does his throat.

Steve makes fruit salad and fried eggs with bacon for breakfast.

Bucky sets the toes of his right foot on top of Steve's left beneath the table as they sit side by side. Steve stacks his right foot on top of Bucky's and flexes it lightly, giving Bucky a smile at the same time.

The corners of Bucky's mouth tick up faintly.

Maybe it's just instinct. Mirroring. Muscle memory. But it's the first smile Steve's seen on Bucky's lips since the forties. He wants to set off fireworks.

They eat in easy silence and wander back to the couch with tall glasses of orange juice afterward.

Bucky drags out the art history book they were looking at yesterday and picks up where he left off.

They read for two hours before Bucky gets up to use the bathroom.

When he comes back, Steve's face is soft and he's biting his lip lightly.

“My friend Sam wants to bring us dinner tonight,” Steve says, turning toward Bucky as Bucky settles beside him on the sofa. “But if you'd rather not have company, that's okay.”

“Do I know him from before, too?”

“No, you met recently,” Steve says, tipping his head to the side. “He's only as old as he looks.”

Bucky's nostrils widen and his lips tighten. He looks away.

“Is he angry?” Bucky asks.

“No. He's a good-natured guy. Doesn't hold a grudge.”

Bucky nods.

Steve texts Sam.

Still up 4 pizza tonight. BFF is here tho. I know u 2 got off on the wrong foot. It's ok if u'd rather skip it.

Wow. I'm game if BFF is game, Sam replies. How many pizzas & what toppings?

They get dressed. Steve lends Bucky some boxer briefs, his smallest jeans, and the tightest t-shirt he owns. The latter is still a little bit loose, but it just makes Bucky look young.

Bucky suspects this is another thing that Steve doesn't do with his other friends. He has little doubt that Natasha and Sam are not wearing Steve's drawers. Further proof that what's between them is something set apart.

He would have let me kill him, Bucky remembers. He draws no lines. No borders. No bounds.

Bucky feels as if his insides are fluttering faintly.

Boundless. Steve's friendship is boundless.

Bucky stares.

Steve is fixing his own hair without looking in the mirror. Arranging it with his fingertips.

He's laid their pajamas out on the foot of the bed rather than putting them away. It makes Bucky think of wearing them again – of lying in bed with warm and kind and nice, which they'll be doing again before too long. Bucky guesses that's likely why Steve hasn't bothered with putting the garments away – no point.

Steve is still favoring his right arm and left leg slightly.

Bucky knows exactly where the wounds lie hidden beneath his best friend's clothes.

“Steve,” Bucky says, almost to himself.

“Yeah?” Steve answers, turning as he does. His smile is the brightest Bucky has ever seen it. White from teeth and stretched wide enough that his cheeks push his eyes shut slightly.

Bucky puts his left index finger on the knife-wound below Steve's clavicle and sets his right palm over the exit wound in Steve's belly.

Steve puts his hands on top of Bucky's and squeezes them, then huffs a gentle laugh and reaches up to push Bucky's hair off his face – it all fell down over his forehead again as soon as it dried.

Bucky closes his eyes, so Steve keeps arranging the unruly locks, giving Bucky affection and comfort to relax him before dinner.

Bucky is back on the couch with his book when Sam comes in.

Sam gives him a warm smile and a slow nod hello as he hands the pizzas off to Steve.

It occurs to Sam that he's sitting down to dinner with a pair of living legends. He thinks it should feel strange, but it's just like any other time he's hung out with buddies. Casual and relatively relaxed, given the circumstances.

Steve and Bucky are both so young, really. The time they spent in their strange suspended animation hardly qualifies as living.

So they're barely thirty.

Boys by today's lax standards, but men almost two times over by the reckoning of their own war torn world.

Bucky is quickly lured in by the smells coming from the kitchen. He hovers at Steve's shoulder as Steve sets the table and Sam opens the boxes.

One with pepperoni, one with green olives, and one with ham, onions, and pineapple, because Steve has a sweet tooth.

Steve and Sam load their plates with one slice of each, so Bucky follows their lead.

“If you don't like something, put it on my plate and I'll finish it for you,” Steve says, sinking into his seat. “And if you don't like any of it, I'll make you something else.”

Bucky is quiet. Unrecognizable to Sam beneath a beard and silky strands of coffee-colored hair. Only his arm gives him away.

Steve appears to be in good spirits. His features have been smiling in one form or another every time Sam has looked at his face. His forehead is smooth. His eyes are wide and bright. He looks light and boyish.

They keep their voices low to try to cling to some privacy. Steve knows agent thirteen isn't going to let him go unguarded. But, after everything that's happened, he can't associate safety and surveillance. They feel mutually exclusive.

Sam read up on Bucky on the Smithsonian's website a week ago.

Sniper.

Straight A student.

All around good guy.

Making Captain America look like a punk in comparison.

And Sam saw Steve beaming in all that old footage. Looking like another man entirely. His grin making his eyes squeeze shut when his best friend was at his side. His shoulders relaxed. His stern features softened by ease and affection.

Sam studies Steve's face and realizes that Steve is grinning the way he did in the grainy forties film footage.

Bucky appears to approve of pizza. He's eating one slice of each type again for his second helping.

Sam notices that Bucky is a bit possessive with Steve. Clingy. He's sitting so close that their chairs are butted up against each other. And he's eating with his left hand so he can hold Steve's left hand with his right and tap Morse code into it. Sam catches snippets of their silent conversation. His Morse is rusty and their fingers are fast. He sees Steve ask favorite?  The answer contains the word ham.

Sam is stunned to find that a trained killer can be so fragile... until he ponders the level of neglect and abuse that would be necessary for turning a human being into a machine. And then Sam is impressed that all Barnes needs is a hand to hold.

Sam suspects the fact that the hand belongs to Steve Rogers is important. That a little bit of a man that good goes a long way.

“You got the dirt on this guy?” Sam asks, jerking his head in Steve's direction. “Any embarrassing stories from back in the day?”

Bucky shakes his head. He squints a little, like he's trying to see something that's far away.

“Just the one memory from before the war so far,” Bucky says, letting his mind drift back to Steve's words on the bridge... the end of the line.

“You gonna be a tease, or you wanna tell me what it is?” Sam says, smiling and taking a bite of pepperoni.

“It's... thirty seconds, tops,” Bucky begins, frowning and shaking his head at the paltry span. Sam just keeps chewing, making space for the words to come. “We were on the landing outside his front door after his mom's funeral. Everything about him was smaller except the features on his face. Like a baby bird. Like his bones'd be hollow if you could see inside 'em... I had my right hand on his shoulder and I could feel his collar bone under my thumb through all his clothes... wanted to haul him home with me and put him up there. Didn't want him working. Wanted him drawing and going to school. Doing things he liked.”

Steve is brushing his thumb back and forth over Bucky's thumb. He's smiling at Bucky faintly and his eyes are shiny.

“You went home with me after,” Bucky says, turning toward Steve, remembering their murmured conversation from the night before. “Did you stay?”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “We lived together until we left for the war.”

“Did you waste your time working?” Bucky asks.

“A little,” Steve admits, and Bucky frowns at that. “I tried to contribute whenever I could. Didn't want to drag you down with me.”

Bucky sags. His chin drops and he lowers his eyes.

“You took good care of me, Buck. Those were the healthiest years of my life.”

“And I held onto you that night?”

“Yeah. You slept on the couch cushions on the floor with me even though your bed was only about ten feet away.”

“Was it nice?” Bucky asks.

“Nice as it could be with me crying like a baby 'bout my mom all night long. Always thought she'd be the one burying me. Wasn't ready.”

Bucky sits, thinking. His face is focused and motionless.

Steve gives Sam a tight smile, but Sam's face is placid. He's known all along this would never be easy. Recovery isn't pretty. Especially not with a past like these two have. He's impressed – and relieved – that things are going this well. He's seen a lot worse.

“But you did get sick,” Bucky says, tentatively.

“Just the once in over two years,” Steve confirms. “That was a personal best for me.”

“Really sick, though,” Bucky says softly, still remembering. It feels like his mind is easing itself into someone else's life. Slipping in through a hole in the ceiling. “I brought a doctor,” Bucky continues. “But he couldn't do nothin' for ya. And half an hour after he left, there was a knock on the door. Father Broderick. Sour-faced sonofabitch.”

“Hated his sermons,” Steve says, nodding. “Miserable old prick. But... I don't remember seeing him.”

“'Cause you didn't,” Bucky says. “I wouldn't let 'im inside. The doctor sent 'im to read you last rites.”

Now Steve's face is furrowed and his gaze is turned inward, sifting through memories of his own and sending dust motes swirling up in his mind.

“I heard you talking to him,” Steve murmurs. “Didn't recognize his voice. You said, 'Get outta here, pops, God ain't gonna get what's mine.' And you shut the door in his face before he could answer.”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, and Steve grins and then bites his lip as his mind slides back into the past.

“You gave me all your blankets and curled up behind me... made me promise not to die... kissed the back of my neck about a thousand times. ”

Bucky nods.

“I thought it was all a fever dream,” Steve says, and his lips stay slightly parted after the words have passed through.

Bucky shakes his head no.

“Fuckin' nightmare,” Bucky breathes, and his blood flows fast with fear that feels fresh even after all these years.

“What have you guys been up to?” Sam asks, after they're done soaking in their thoughts and have recovered enough to move onto their third helpings of pizza.

“Ripping Hill's surveillance shit outta my rooms,” Steve sighs, and Sam looks to Bucky to see if he has anything to add.

“Needs,” Bucky shrugs. “Eating, sleeping, bathing, reading, touching, breathing.”

The response is laconic. Precise. A report.

But the shrug is irreverent. Insubordinate. Casual. Calm. Comfortable.

Sam looks at Bucky's right hand.

Still clinging to Steve's left.

A lifeline.

A warm road of blood and bone leading back to free will and familiarity and the sort of love that gets left out of the history books, forced to make an account of itself in paintings and poetry instead.

“And what are you going to do?” Sam asks, worried.

“Hell if I know,” Steve admits, with a twist to his mouth.

Natasha is waiting in Sam's kitchen when he gets home from dinner.

She walks him to a playground a quarter of a mile from his house and they sit at a picnic table.

“Is Steve safe?” she asks.

“With Barnes?”

Nat nods.

“Seems that way. Bucky barely remembers anything. But, what he does remember...” Sam shakes his head. “A few seconds from their past are enough for a lifetime.”

“Chronic illness, the great depression, World War Two, medical experiments, decades on ice, and waking up as HYDRA's plaything...”

“For both of them,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“They're like entwined particles,” Natasha agrees, keeping an eye on passers by to make sure she doesn't see the same shoes and faces go past twice.

“Bucky sticks to Steve like glue,” Sam says, softly.

“Who could blame him? Steve's the only remotely constant thing in this world for Bucky. And vice versa.”

Sam nods his agreement.

“And Steve's handling it all okay? As far as you can tell. I know he's stupidly stoic, but...”

“They both seem okay, all things considered,” Sam confirms. “Pretty sure it's nothing new for them to lean hard on each other, though. And life's given them plenty of practice when it comes to dealing with heavy shit. I've never seen Steve look better. And I've never felt like such an idiot. Don't know why I didn't see it.”

“See what?” Nat asks, brow furrowing, instantly worried and uncharacteristically transparent.

“They held hands all through dinner... and... either one of them sleeps standing up or they're both staying in Steve's bed. There weren't any blankets on the couch.”

Natasha grins and nods.

“Don't feel bad. I didn't catch it either. I kept trying to set Steve up with girls, but he wouldn't bite,” she admits.

“I kept trying to find out what would make him happy.”

“And all this time the answer was just James Buchanan Barnes,” Nat breezes. “Here I was thinking Steve had the world's worst poker-face. That guy could keep secrets from God.”

Sam laughs.

The next morning, Steve wakes to the sensation of Bucky's fingers following the contours of his nose. Focusing on the knots on the right side of the bridge.

“It's been broken,” Bucky says, when Steve opens his eyes.

“Mmmhmm,” Steve agrees.

“Twice.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“How?”

“Started a couple fights I couldn't finish,” Steve shrugs, and then yawns. He gives a slow groaning stretch and then sags back into the bed. “Used to be kinda like a hobby. You always bailed me out in the end... or fixed me up when I was dumb enough to go off without you.”

Bucky watches Steve's body in the shower after breakfast.

He's beginning to suspect that Steve is beautiful - he looks like so many of the men in the art history book on the coffee table.

“Contrapposto,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve looks down at himself. He has all his weight resting on his right leg and he's using his left arm to scrub his hair.

“Yeah,” Steve says, with a smile.

“Kritios boy,” Bucky continues, and Steve nods.

But the marble boys in the book don't have eyes like Steve's, and when Bucky thinks of beauty, those two blue dots rank higher than tilted hips and slanted shoulders.

Steve's eyes are... soft... which is such an imprecise and entirely subjective way of putting it. Bucky is appalled.

But he's also right. For his own purposes, anyway. The blue is wet and soothing to him. Never hard, firm, forceful, or violent.

And the slope of Steve's lashes only makes them more so. It renders their expression sleepy and sad. Devoid of threat.

Steve's eyebrows have to do the heavy-hitting when he's angry. His eyebrows and his mouth: Steve is good at frowning, and skill comes from practice.

Bucky thinks everything Steve does with his mouth is rather remarkable. He likes to watch the red lobes wrap around words and food.

He isn't entirely certain why he likes it. Watching Sam's mouth wasn't the same. He tried it out as a test.

And he doesn't know why he would classify Steve's mouth as beautiful.

He can't find any utility in beauty. Can't measure why Steve's lips are better than every other set in the world, but he wouldn't hesitate to argue that they are, regardless of the lack of hard evidence.

He tells himself it should bother him more, but then decides to be pleased with his imprecision instead. He doesn't want to do what HYDRA told him to do or see the world the way they taught him to see. He refuses to keep thinking their pared down purposeful thoughts. He won't be what they made of him: a Giacometti scarecrow of a man. He'd rather be like Rubens' women. Or Rodin's Age of Bronze. Maybe Carpeaux'sDance.

His eyes run over Steve's most obvious injuries. The bright pink freshly gnarled flesh is painful to Bucky, and all the worse because he put it there himself.

My injuries, Bucky accuses.

A weird language, written in skin.

A history.

Bucky has shaped history. Here's the proof. Written in scars on a man from the Smithsonian.

But history wrote all over Bucky, too.

“We make a strange mirror,” Bucky murmurs.

And Steve gives Bucky a smile that's somehow sad, and the sadness only renders the smile more remarkable, because it's a paradox.

It shouldn't make sense, Bucky thinks, but he knows it does nonetheless.

And then Steve tugs Bucky's soaked and sudsy body against his own and holds it close.

Bucky can feel Steve's head resting on his right shoulder.

Feel their hearts thudding together through their breasts.

No cotton between them now.

No distance.

A swath of zeros down their fronts, and their sum is more than nothing.

It's everything.

Impossible.

Bucky lets himself stroke Steve's spine, grateful that all of his blades and bullets missed the complex column of nerve and bone by wide margins.

Steve looks at Bucky's body as they both hop from foot to foot, drying off on the bathmat. He's pleased that there are so few scars. Apart from the left shoulder.

Just the barest hint of bruising remains from Bucky's recent injuries. Yellow shadows beneath milky skin.

Steve hopes that all of Bucky's future-bruises are the kind that come from lips. Plummy dots the size of dimes. Bucky used to ask Steve to put one at the base of his back, just above the coccyx. He said he liked knowing it was there beneath his uniform. And he liked to think it looked like someone had torn off his tail.

Steve would always huff and say, You just want me to kiss your ass, and Bucky would wave the pretty globes in Steve's face in agreement. But Steve wanted to kiss Bucky's ass anyway, so he couldn't really complain.

Steve wakes at four o'clock on Thursday morning to the motions of Bucky twitching through a nightmare beside him. The street light coming through the curtains tints everything a dark dusty orange. A color Steve has come to associate with lying in bed alone.

Now it's the color of nightmares.

But he isn't alone.

He doesn't want Bucky to be stranded in a bad dream, so he rolls over and shakes his friend gently.

“Buck, you're dreamin',” Steve whispers. “Wake up.”

Steve's next words are eked out through an airway that's being crushed by cold metal.

“Buck... I'm... havin' trouble breathin',” Steve rasps.

Bucky lets go like he's been burned and falls back, gasping, against the headboard.

He's heard those words a hundred times before, through asthma attacks that scared him even worse than they scared Steve. They all come tumbling down in Bucky's mind like boulders, burying him in visions of blue lips.

When he risks a look, he catches Steve lying on his back, rubbing his neck and wincing when he swallows.

And it hadn't occurred to Bucky that, rather than being dragged away, he could be asked to leave. But the possibility seems obvious to him now.

Steve's pretty lips are parting.

The beginning of the end.

Some part of Bucky is grateful that the words that rip him from niceness and warmth and Steve will, at least, look lovely as they fall from his best friend's lips.

“Sorry,” Steve says, grinning and shaking his head. “That was stupid of me. Shouldn't'a startled you like that. Next time I'll get out of arm's reach before I wake you up. Or I won't wake you up at all if it makes it worse.”

Bucky stares, still panting and soaked in sweat.

“Gonna get a crick in your neck if you stay like that,” Steve scolds gently, patting the space in front of him and then taking Bucky's fingers and gently tugging them when Bucky doesn't respond.

Bucky shuffles down the bed in a daze. Steve urges him out of his damp pajamas and then takes off his own tee shirt and uses it to dry Bucky off. He tosses the wet clothes in the direction of the washing machine and flops back down on his side in front of Bucky.

Steve arranges the sheets around their bodies and settles in so that they're nose to nose. He drapes his right leg over Bucky's hip and tugs him in tight.

Bucky is at a loss. Steve just moved closer to the man who almost killed him again.

Boundless, Bucky remembers.

He sets his lips to Steve's forehead and says the word We.

He can feel Steve's breath blowing warm against the base of his throat, lulling him back to sleep.

Steve has a standing coffee date with Thor at eleven am on Thursdays. Bucky is amenable to meeting another of Steve's friends – especially after Steve informs him that he's never met Thor before and that Thor is as sturdy as they come. So Steve grabs his phone to text Thor and ask if he could be persuaded to pick up their usual order and then bring it here.

But Steve's phone isn't getting any service.

He frowns and crosses the room to grab his land line, but there's only silence where the dial tone should be.

When he opens his iPad, the wi-fi isn't working. He reaches to unplug the router and plug it in again, but he stops when he sees the lights are out on the modem.

“Shit,” Steve sighs.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, looking up from Origins: Fourteen Billion Years of Cosmic Evolution as he sits on the sofa.

“Comms are cut.”

“We don't use 'em much,” Bucky notes.

“Yeah, but it won't stop there,” Steve sighs.

The water runs out, sputtering and shaking the pipes, while Steve is in the middle of washing the dishes.

“Fuck,” Steve spits. He shakes the suds off his hands and grabs a towel. “I think we should maybe get dressed.”

He gives Bucky a long sleeved raglan shirt. The jersey is comfortably thin but covers his arm in case they have to run. They wear the same jeans they had on the night before, since they only wore them for three hours through dinner. Steve gets some gloves down from the box in his hall closet, just in case.

They stick to their routine of reading on the sofa, but Steve has his shield by his feet and his left arm is resting on the back of the couch behind Bucky's back, poised to protect his friend's head.

Bucky can feel the tension in Steve's body. A hard line against his right side.

“Music?” Bucky says, remembering how boneless Steve went when they listened to Van Morrison.

Steve nods.

They sprawl on top of the blankets and link hands. Steve's shield is propped up against the bed on the floor by his right hand.

The room is bright, even with the curtains drawn.

Steve thinks of cotton dresses with tiny floral prints. His mother's Sunday best. He remembers the sunlight shining through her fingernails as she reached down to ruffle his hair while they walked home from church when he was seven years old.

Bucky's fingers tighten around Steve's hand whenever the music swells.

Steve sneaks a peek at Bucky's face. His lips are in their resting pose: pouting and slightly parted. Relaxed. His eyes are wide but unfocused. He used to get this way when a really good record was playing in the background at a bar. He'd just drift off on the music.

Young Boy Blues fades out and This Magic Moment swirls in on a breeze of strings. The two tracks are currently tied with Stand By Me for the status of Steve's Favorite Song.

The electricity goes out before the album is over.

Steve sees Bucky's features fold up into a frown.

“Goddammit,” Steve gripes.

He thinks there should be a law on the books against spitefully cutting the power when a guy's lying on his back listening to Ben E. King with his best friend.

It's shitty even by the standards of Steve's life, which lie somewhere along the floor of the Mariana trench, last time Steve looked.

Steve doesn't bother to get up. He just squeezes Bucky's hand and rubs the knuckle of Bucky's right index finger with his thumb.

They're half asleep when they hear heavy footsteps pounding across the roof followed by the access door being wrenched open.

Bucky squeezes Steve's hand and Steve drops his right arm to pick up his shield.

“You stay behind me, okay?” Steve says, eyes pleading, and Bucky nods as they climb out of bed.

They head to the kitchen to get Steve's gun from under the sink where it's taped to the back of the stainless steel basin behind the garbage disposal. Then they roll the fridge forward so that they can use it for cover from whoever is running down the stairs.

They see the chain from Steve's entry door fly down the hall as the door itself slams to the the floor with a booming whoosh of air.

Then silence.

  


7  Another Highway

 

“Steve?”

A deep gruff voice.

Bucky silently pulls a Wüsthof out of the wooden block behind him on the counter top, but Steve lowers his gun and his shield.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and lets a slow breath sigh out through his nose as his shoulders sag.

Bucky smiles faintly when the angel from outside the hospital comes around the corner.

Its aspect is male again, more or less.

Armored and enormous.

Fierce.

Wild.

And so beautiful - like Steve and the marble boys from Greece, but with hair like a woman's.

Bucky knows it's all merely maya anyway. The being is made of energy just like its weapon. Just like everything.

Bucky gets a strange sort of confirmation of his suspicions when Steve says the thing's name upon making introductions.

“Thor," Steve says, very softly, "This is Bucky Barnes. Buck, this is Thor.”

Bucky had been surprised that Steve knew a strong man named Thor. This makes more sense. The name is from another pantheon, but, if there's a God, then the details don't matter: all features of the same face. The important thing is that the being is allied with Steve, so Bucky won't have to kill God today, which he's fairly certain is for the best, in the grand scheme of things - if there is one, and it's beginning to look like there is.

So Bucky revises his world again.

Math is always wrong. Or the universe is bad at math. Either way, the end result is the same and we can only follow in its crooked footsteps.

There should be balance.

Positive and negative.

Particles and antiparticles.

The pairs should be evenly matched, all of them annihilating each other, leaving a perfect vacuum of nothingness in their very brief wake.

But, instead, there are stars and planets and strangely benign black holes that don't devour the galaxies surrounding them but instead sit quietly at their centers.

The universe leans toward existence rather than nonexistence.

Toward the positive.

Toward the good; toward virtuous, desirable, valid, and considerable.

And, therefore, ultimately, toward Steve.

The angels are on Steve's side... or he's on theirs. It amounts to the same thing: Thor can be trusted.

Bucky hears thunder and his eyes widen slightly.

An angel left out of the Bible and adopted as a god.

He wonders what else was missed or mistaken by the old men who wrote down God's story.

“Sorry I stood you up,” Steve sighs, waving Thor in and shoving the refrigerator back into its slot under the cupboards. “I tried to text, and call, and email, but everything's dead.”

Thor puts his hand on Steve's shoulder. In the same spot Bucky remembers putting his own hand all those years ago. Like an echo.

Thor wants to take care of Steve, Bucky realizes. Worries about him... probably wants to take him back home to heaven and buy him art supplies.

Bucky smiles to himself: God has his approval.

“When I hadn't heard from you and couldn't reach you I asked Natasha if she'd had word,” Thor says. “She hadn't, and she couldn't get through either.”

“Governments get funny ideas when it comes to keeping folks safe,” Steve grumbles.

“Natasha insisted that I meet with her before I could make my way to you,” Thor says. “She said she had news for me.”

Steve nods and smiles.

“Have you been attacked or threatened?” Thor asks.

“No. They're just trying to smoke me out. They want to get a look at me and get an agent in here to fix everything they broke and plant some new mics in the meantime.”

“Sorry about the door,” Thor says, bending to pick it up from the floor and then leaning it up against the jamb to block the view inside. “I didn't want to give myself away by calling and knocking in case you already had unwanted guests.”

“You were definitely a surprise,” Steve says, smiling at Thor and seeing his expression mirrored on the god's face.

“I need you to pack clothes, and quickly,” Thor says.

“How many days' worth?” Steve asks, but Thor shakes his head.

“Everything you can carry.”

Steve nods and goes to his room.

Bucky slides the knife back into its slot in the wooden stand, gets the orange juice out of the fridge, fills three cups, and hands one to Thor.

“Thank you,” Thor smiles.

His blue gaze lingers on Bucky from over the edge of the glass as he raises it to his lips.

Bucky doesn't blink. Thor's eyes are smiling at him just a little. Dense black lashes and dark bushy eyebrows. Like Steve's.

Maybe they're related.

“You Steve's brother?” Bucky asks, and Thor beams.

“No, but you pay me a great compliment with your question. I was another man's brother once. He looked a bit like you.”

Looked, Bucky thinks.

Past tense.

Thor's brother is dead.

Thor and Steve are not siblings.

But they're cut from the same cloth, Bucky decides.

“Life treats you like shit, too,” Bucky says, and Thor huffs a laugh, grins, and tips his head in playful agreement.

Steve lays his clothes out on top of his bed, rolls the comforter up around them, bends it into a loop, and bands it shut with a few belts.

He puts his leather strap on over his street clothes and locks his shield in place on his back, then tosses the thick ring containing his wardrobe over his shoulder.

In the kitchen, he joins his friends in polishing off the orange juice and a few other perishables before grabbing Bucky's file from the counter.

“Anything you wanna bring, Buck?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks around the room and ultimately opts to grab a couple of books.

Thor leads the way. He sets his finger over the peephole in agent thirteen's door as Steve and Bucky walk past and make their way into the stairwell and up to the roof.

“Count slowly aloud to one thousand and stay where you are,” Thor says, to the door. “I'll hear you far longer than you think.”

Natasha is waiting for them on the rooftop.

Bucky's eyes widen slightly and he goes still, but Nat winks at him.

“Your shoulder,” Bucky says. “And your stomach.”

“Two strikes against bikinis,” she smiles, and Bucky looks to Steve.

“Nineteen forty-six," Steve says. “Two-piece bathing suit that looks like panties and a brassiere.”

Bucky nods.

“I'll wear one with you, if you need someone to hold your hand,” Steve teases, turning to Nat.

“I know how to sew, Steve. Don't tempt me.”

“What's going on?” Steve asks, widening his stance to lower his body and ducking his head slightly to bring his face closer to Natasha's.

“Hill saw your text to Sam. She sent it along to Coulson,” Natasha says, and Steve groans.

“All the shit that's gone down and they're still watching me?" Steve boggles.

“It's all they know. They're concerned a certain someone is going to come after you again,” Natasha says, smirking in the middle of the sentence.

“Concerned, or hoping?” Steve asks, grimacing.

“My money's on the latter,” Nat admits, and Steve nods. “They also want to know who your BFF is. They haven't put it together yet. Hill will be here in less than ten minutes. Thirteen just called her and told her Thor broke down your door. What do you want me to tell them all?”

Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“Any ideas?” Steve asks.

“I'll just say you're living the dream: running away with the god of thunder,” Nat smiles, shrugging casually.

Steve waggles his eyebrows once and grins. He isn't blushing.

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Steve mouths, silently, and Natasha's jaw drops briefly before she breaks into a smile.

Not his first kiss since nineteen forty-five, indeed. Fuck. I owe Clint fifty bucks.

Nat steps in to give Steve a hug and a kiss. He picks her up and squeezes her carefully, then pecks her cheek.

“Thanks for everything, kiddo,” Steve breathes.

“Any time, Otzi.”

Steve's eyes go wide and he laughs.

“I got that joke, thanks. Might make a nice alias.”

“Probably a little too on the nose,” she says, and then returns his kiss again before he sets her down.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, realizing he has no idea.

“Only Thor gets to know,” Nat says.

Steve's face falls.

Nothing ever changes: nothing ever stays the same.

And it never gets easier, either.

He's losing nearly everything he knows. Again.

He pictures himself as a child who always builds his sandcastle at the water's edge during low tide and then has his whole world washed away by the sea. Who never learns.

Still, it makes sense. Thor has a memory like an elephant. He has no real history with SHIELD. They can't trace him. His isn't limited to traveling by machines that can be tracked. He doesn't have to stick to roads and other places that are lined with security cameras. He's very capable of defending himself. He has access to technology that Tony Stark would give his testicles to get his hands on. And, to top it off, he's a better human being than nearly every human being Steve has ever met.

Steve hugs Natasha again, only this time he's shaking faintly and hiding his face in her neck.

She wants to promise that they'll see each other again. But she knows their lives well enough to know better than to get their hopes up. She settles for kissing his cheek once again and asking what color he wants his bikini to be.

“Blue's always been my favorite color,” Steve tells her. “Ultramarine.”

Natasha nods and thinks of the lapis lazuli eyebrows on Tutankhamun's funeral mask.

Thor beckons Steve and Bucky in closer as more clouds gather low overhead so that planes and satellites will see nothing.

“One of you can stand on my left foot and I'll hold you,” Thor says, and then bends his right knee so that his lower leg is parallel to the ground. “The other can sit on my calf and hang onto my belt.”

Bucky smiles at this and squats to straddle Thor's right leg. He holds his books in his right hand and grabs Thor's belt with his left. Steve stands on Thor's foot and feels Thor's arm snake around his waist.

“Ready?” Thor asks.

“Yeah,” Steve and Bucky chime.

“Hold on tight now,” Thor warns, and then counts down from three.

It's a bit like leaning out a helicopter.

Better, though. No nasty mechanical noises. Just the wind in their ears as the world rushes away beneath their feet.

Natasha waves her farewell from the rooftop.

The sun sinks behind them as ocean sprawls ahead. They're low enough to feel the spray. They can smell salt.

At one point, Thor darts a dozen yards up into the air to let them get a better view of a pod of whales.

The size of the creatures seems impossible.

Mammals, Bucky remembers. Milk in their breasts and live birth. Warm blood in cold seas.

The thoughts are a comfort. Bucky hopes the sleek beasts were keeping Steve company when he was trapped in ice for three quarters of a century. He imagines them ringing Steve's ears with their sad songs and fanning him up toward the sun with flippers as big as boats.

Thor moves faster than a plane. Steve and Bucky's limbs have grown cold and stiff from the wind and their hair has blown back into wild shapes. Their cheeks and noses are red with the chill.

They both hate to be cold, but there's nothing for it.

Land finally rears up on the horizon, a dark jagged line against the indigo of the night sky and the ink of the sea.

Streetlights are widely scattered, and cities are miles away, which means that most of the stars are visible. They can see the milky way. They've seen it on missions, but now they're at leisure to really let themselves look.

It's a comfort. Familiar. Polaris is as constant as ever.

But the distance through which they're looking is overwhelming.

Some of those stars have been dead for years and we just don't know it yet, Steve remembers. The night sky is the one place where you can see ghosts as plain as day.

He thinks of Ernest Shackleton's navigator Frank Worsley, and the species of genius that went extinct with him. Using the sky as a map that tells you exactly where you stand, not where the stars lie. The inversion of it. The needle knowing its precise position in the chaos of the haystack.

Steve and Bucky know where they are, but they don't know why.

Thor sets them down near the front door of a house that's perched at the top of a hill. A very modern home. Built from a shipping container that's had half its walls replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, there's a woman seated at a desk before a glowing laptop screen. She's got a lamp on beside her. Her head is turned toward them. She likely heard them land, or, at the very least, felt the house shake when Thor's feet hit the ground. The reflection of the room is making it hard for her to see through the glass.

Thor knocks softly.

The light over the door flips on and the trio squints at the silhouette standing in the open doorway.

“Look at you lot,” the woman tuts, salt and pepper bob swaying at her cheeks as she shakes her head in mock-disapproval.

They blink up at her.

“Pleased to see you out of the hospital, lad,” she adds, softly, nodding at Steve. “Come on inside, boys, before all the warm air gets out.”

“Thank you,” Steve pants, remembering his manners, and they trudge in after her.

“Maureen Kearney,” Thor says, and she nods. “I'm sorry to trouble you at this hour, but my friend needs help and I hear you're good at keeping secrets.”

Steve huffs a bewildered laugh.

“She writes mystery novels and the plots never leak,” Steve says. “Everyone she knows is good at keeping secrets.”

“She's also your second cousin twice removed,” Thor tells him.

“How'd you know that?” Steve asks – he only found out himself six months ago when he was having trouble sleeping and got sucked into ancestry.com.

“I asked my friend Heimdall for advice before I came to see you.”

Maureen looks them over and narrows her eyes slightly at Bucky, who is tucked into Steve's left side. She caught the glint of his chrome fingers. She's seen footage of this man on the news and all over youtube, shooting at her second cousin and tearing up D.C.

Steve has his arm over Bucky's shoulder and Bucky's right hand is on top of Steve's left where it rests over Bucky's left collarbone.

“How many secrets am I going to be keeping?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Thor looks at Steve.

“Maureen,” Steve sighs, with a slight shrug of his shoulders and a slow shaking of his head, “This is Sargeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

“You can call me Bucky, ma'am,” Bucky adds, realizing what a mouthful that was next to monosyllabic names like Steve and Thor.

“Well, I'll be damned,” she whispers.

“You and me both,” Bucky says, and Steve squeezes his shoulder and huffs.

Maureen's parents taught her to be safe. To look after herself. And it's what she taught her own children. But Maureen's grandfather – who still believed in the little people and found four-leafed clovers without ever seeming to be looking for them - gave her advice that was at odds with all that. He claimed you should always answer your door - even in the dead of night when you're all alone – because You never know. It could be Christ.

It's how she met her husband.

His car broke down two miles away in the days before cell phones. When he knocked at half past three on a Sunday morning, she answered. Six months later, they were married.

Tonight, at a quarter past nine, she got a god, a second cousin, and a boy who looks like a bearded Saint Sebastian.

One could do worse, she supposes.

“Had your supper?” she asks.

“No, ma'am,” Steve answers, and drops his head, laughing a little. “But we're worse than locusts.”

“I lived through three teenagers,” she says, shrugging.

After dinner, Maureen brings pillows and blankets and piles them on the couch.

“I don't want to put you out,” Steve says.

“You're not putting me out, I'm putting you up. Most of the people on this planet owe their lives to you a dozen times over, Steven. This doesn't even begin to put a dent in our debt.”

“I was just doing my job,” Steve murmurs, blushing.

Maureen snorts a laugh and looks at Thor, who grins back at her. Their smiles silently tease Steve for his modesty.

She sits up with them for a while, getting Steve caught up on the doings of his distant relatives. He notes that most of them are self-employed in one way or another.

“Connollys don't like being told what to do,” Maureen says.

Steve and Thor laugh in agreement.

“Bathroom's the last door on the right,” Maureen calls, as she heads off to bed. “Help yourselves to anything you like.”

She smiles to herself when three enormous male voices simultaneously chime their thanks.

“How long will you be staying with us?” Steve asks, turning to Thor. “I don't want to keep you from Asgard and Jane.”

“I'll stay until you're settled and I'm confident you're safe. You're not an inconvenience, Captain.”

Steve smiles and bites his lip.

Thor rises from his seat and goes to stare out the window. Steve shuts off the lights so that Thor will have a better view.

“Steve?” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

“Can we take a shower?”

“Sure.”

They're both crunchy with the salt that's clinging to their hair and skin. It's a relief to feel the brittle crystalline stiffness melting away under the hot spray. And the warmth is welcome after the numbing chill of the journey. It makes them feel like flesh and blood again instead of ice and stone.

When they're done with their washing, they stand huddled together under the shower head, hugging and half-asleep on their feet. They let the water run down over their skin, soothing them with its boneless fingers.

“Probably gonna run out of hot water soon,” Steve murmurs. His lips drag against the bend of Bucky's neck, faintly slurring his words. “We don't wanna be in here when it goes cold.”

Bucky nods and Steve shuts off the tap, then opens the door just enough to grab their towels so they can dry off in the steamy warmth that lingers in the shower. They bump and jostle each other without ever finding it irritating. Steve carefully squeezes Bucky's hair between the towels, drying it as best he can.

“You can have the couch,” Steve offers, as they amble into the living room. He unrolls his comforter to find them some pajamas.

“Where are you gonna sleep?” Bucky asks, tugging on flannel bottoms and yet another too-big tee shirt.

“Floor.”

“Floor is fine for me,” Bucky says, and Steve nods while his cheeks glow with warmth in the dark.

Steve lays a sheet out on the rug and tosses the pillows down at one end, then floats the quilt Maureen gave them over it. They tuck themselves in with long sighs.

“G'night, Thor,” Steve says.

“Goodnight, my friends,” Thor answers, and Bucky smiles at being counted in that company.

He settles into his preferred position: with his front pressed flush against Steve's front, keeping all their vulnerabilities bundled together between them and leaving their skulls and ribs to watch their backs.

Skulls and ribs and Thor.

Thor makes Bucky feel sleepy - so relaxed it's hard to keep his eyes open. He can't imagine how anything could go wrong when he's got an armored blue-eyed angel-god watching over him, so he doesn't mind letting his guard down.

Bucky approves of all of Steve's friends.

Steve is a good judge of character, Bucky realizes, and thinks about what that means for him.

If I'm Steve's best friend, I must be worthy of it. Must have earned it back in all those gone grey days.

It's a relief.

He thinks of Natasha, hovering at the edges of Steve's life like a small and silent version of Thor. Quietly concerned. Watching like a hawk. Knowing like a god.

Bucky pictures a painting from Steve's book. Gustave Moreau's Oedipus and the Sphinx.

The Sphinx is Natasha. The realist.

Steve is Oedipus. The idealist.

Bucky wants to steal the painting, but it's pointless, because he needs two - so Steve and Natasha can each have one.

Anachronistic portraits. It makes sense to Bucky that time is wrong again. Even for Romanoff.

Her mind is so much older than it should be from working so much harder than almost anyone else's has ever had to, Bucky decides.

And Steve is older than he should be. Men rarely make it to their mid nineties. And Steve is younger than he should be, too. Awake for less than thirty of those years.

Paradox again.

It's good that Steve and Natasha stumbled into each other. They match. Or, rather, they don't match, and instead they fill in each other's gaps. And that way they keep each other breathing and neither one is left alone.

And she gives Steve touch, and that's a need.

She kisses Steve, Bucky remembers.

Frequently.

And she doesn't say words that start with W when she does it, either. She just leans in, presses her lips forward, and sets them on Steve whenever she wants to.

And Steve lets her.

And he kisses her in return.

Because they're friends.

And Steve said I'm his best friend.

Bucky tips his head and kisses Steve's right cheek. He feels Steve's arm tighten around his waist and hears Steve's heart speed up just slightly.

Steve turns his head and kisses Bucky's right cheek in answer. Bucky feels his own heart beating faster now, following Steve's. He nudges his cheek against Steve's mouth to ask for more.

Steve's lips are tight with a smile for a second before he schools them into a pout and presses them to the side of Bucky's face again.

“Gimme your other cheek,” Steve whispers, and Bucky complies so that Steve can kiss that, too. “Now gimme your forehead,” Steve breathes.

Bucky ducks his chin to let Steve press kisses to his hairline. Steve uses his lips to nudge Bucky's head back slightly so that he can kiss Bucky's left eyebrow. He feels a soft oh, puff out against the base of his throat, so he kisses Bucky's right eyebrow, too. Then he leans in to kiss Bucky's eyelids and the tip of his nose.

Bucky darts his head up to kiss Steve's lips, unwilling to let one of his favorite features go untended.

They're full and soft and taste like toothpaste and skin.

Bucky can feel the breath from Steve's nose blowing down onto his lips.

He has that sensation that he's won something again. That he's out in front of the entire world and they don't even realize they've been left behind.

Steve hums and presses a long playful kiss to Bucky's lips, then pecks his way through Bucky's beard and over to the bend of his jaw before pulling Bucky in close and rubbing his back.

“How's the rest of that song go?” Bucky murmurs, and Steve initially wonders if Bucky's talking in his sleep. Steve used to be able to have whole conversations with Bucky when he was sleeping. Always irrational impossible nonsense. But beautiful.

It's been such a long day it takes Steve a second to remember.

“The one we didn't finish 'cause the electricity got cut?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods.

Steve sings the rest of This Magic Moment softly into Bucky's ear.

“Sing me somethin' else,” Bucky breathes, butting his head lightly against Steve's jaw, begging and demanding in the language of beasts.

Steve sings Impossible, and tells himself he has to play Nat King Cole's version for Bucky as soon as he's able, because he isn't doing the song any justice. It feels so naked and strange without the band behind it... and Steve's voice can't even begin to compare.

“One more,” Bucky whispers, with lips that barely move.

Steve sings Blue Moon. It's been in his head a lot these days.

In the morning, Maureen comes out and finds Steve and Bucky still asleep in their tangle on the rug. Steve's arm is around Bucky's waist and Bucky's arm is over Steve's neck. Steve's leg is draped over Bucky's hip.

She thinks of all the childhoods that abruptly ended in 1929.

Of all the innocence lost to guns, tanks, and trenches over the last century.

Of the way no one makes it through war unscathed.

Of boys forced to grow up but not allowed to grow old.

Of people trapped in lives that are relentlessly unkind.

Of the two blonds under her roof who have tried and failed to die and the brunet who can't remember living.

She smiles at the hard-earned happiness that lies dreaming in a heap on her floor, then tiptoes across the room to brew coffee.

Thor is still standing by the window, but his head is turned to let him watch Maureen's face.

She realizes this is part of keeping them safe. He stayed to see what she would do when she saw the way the soldiers really are.

“I've got a boy like these boys,” she says, softly, as she passes him on her way to the kitchen.

Thor nods and his face looks younger.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Aye, please,” he says, and she smiles at hearing a word that has for so long gone neglected. It reminds her of her grandfather again.

Maureen's driveway goes past her tidy geometric home and down the hill toward the sea. The house she grew up in is there. It's where she and her husband Michael raised their children. But the kids moved to the city for work and Michael is away working on repairs to a dry stone wall that's seen better days. He's staying with friends from college who live out that way, and it eases her mind. She hates the thought of him wasting all his time driving up and down winding roads each day.

Thor calls more clouds while they eat breakfast. They roll in slowly, and from far away, so the weather won't alarm the meteorologists but their little group will have good cover as they walk down to the old house.

Inside, all the furniture is draped in sheets. The wingbacks in front of the fireplace look like stout static ghosts, sulking at having no one to haunt. Dust motes dance in the hazy light that slips in through the curtains.

Maureen sighs and waves a hand at the whole of it.

“We clean it up for Christmas when the kids come down with their families, but other than that it just sits. It's too distracting to write in it. I always find something that needs fixing or painting or dusting or fussing with. You can leave the extra rooms closed up if you like, or you can open the whole thing and air it all out.”

“Maureen, this is-” Steve begins.

“Otherwise going to waste,” she finishes.

“It's too much,” Steve says. “We can't-”

“You can and you will,” she says, with finality that speaks of practice.

Steve helps with the laundry, pulling down sheets and curtains and washing them in the tub in the workroom at the back of the house. Thor takes the linens outside and dries them with wind, then asks Bucky to help him fold them.

Bucky keeps sniffing them because they smell like the sky, and he can't quite put a finger on how he'd describe the scent.

A little like snow, he decides, only half satisfied with his answer. Mineral and metallic. But soft.

Thor slips back off to London in the middle of the afternoon to do some shopping.

Maureen leaves Steve and Bucky alone to get settled.

There's an old rotary phone in the kitchen with miles of cord trailing from it and Steve is a little bit in love with the thing. He imagines a lovestruck teenager pacing back and forth on the coiled wire tether, mooning over some boy with his best friend and wishing for a more private place than the kitchen to have such conversations.

They're not allowed to use the phone. They can't risk having their voices going out where they might be recorded and recognized. Thor knows their number, and they know his, in case there's an emergency, but it's a last resort.

Steve tells Bucky he can have first choice of which bedroom he wants.

“We're gonna have separate rooms?” Bucky asks, frowning and wrinkling his forehead at Steve.

“For our stuff, anyway, if you want to. It might be good for you to have a place that's just your own. You can do what you like with it. Go there if you need some space or quiet or privacy. Get away from me if I get irritating.”

Steve smiles. He doesn't look angry. Bucky takes that as a good sign.

If, Bucky thinks, honing in on the word. Meaning that all of these things are conditional. Optional, not inevitable.

There's a bedroom at the back that looks out on the sea and is almost entirely taken up by the bed itself. It has a fluffy red and white plaid comforter and an enormous cable knit throw draped across the foot. Bucky wants Steve to pick this one, so he passes it by.

The next room has matching twin beds in it. Lots of blue. A room for two boys. But brothers.

Bucky crosses the hall.

He likes the small bedroom with the window that looks out onto a green hill. The space is mostly white, but the wall at the head of the bed has wallpaper with botanical illustrations all over it, and there are framed pressed flowers on the rest of the walls. The curtains are lace. The sheets have tiny birds on them. The bedspread has panels of eyelet cotton. The dresser has two bottles of perfume on it and there are pictures of smiling young men and women wedged into the gap between the mirror and its frame on the vanity. Rag rugs containing every color cover the floor. And the double bed is so soft. Bucky can hear the goose down rustling in the feather bed that's hidden beneath the blankets when he presses on the mattress.

Bucky sets the books he brought on the dresser and turns to find Steve smiling at him from the doorway.

Thor returns and stocks their fridge, humming all the while, then cooks them dinner.

“What do we do?” Steve asks, over roasted chicken that's so good it's making his toes curl.

“Rest,” Thor says, nudging Steve's leg with his own under the table and jostling him lightly. “You're overdue. Whenever I have answers, I'll bring them to you.”

Steve lets out a slow breath. He's never been good at waiting.

“Keep a list of things you need,” Thor tells them, later, looking back and forth between both of them as he goes to leave.

They nod.

Thor tugs Steve into a hug and kisses Steve's cheeks.

Bucky is pleased with himself for having done the right thing last night: Steve is a friend meant for kissing.

“Thanks for everything,” Steve says, and his nostrils flare a little as his face goes tight.

Thor cups the back of Steve's neck and brushes his thumb over the edge of Steve's jaw until Steve's face is soft and smiling again.

“It's my pleasure, I promise you,” Thor tells him.

And then Thor hugs and kisses Bucky, too, and Bucky gets to see those glowing eyes up close.

They're not really like Steve's at all, but lovely nonetheless, and it's a bit bewildering to Bucky that two sets of beautiful blue eyes can be such entirely different things. And Thor smells like the sky more than he smells like a man. And his skin is a little warmer than theirs. And his breath is like apples, though he hasn't been eating any, and that makes Bucky smile, though he isn't sure why.

The shower is an old claw footed bathtub with a curtain drawn around it. It's narrow, and Steve and Bucky have to shuffle past each other carefully when they swap sides to take turns standing under the shower head. Bucky likes it. Steve grips him gently with every pass to make sure they don't bounce off of each other and tumble out onto the floor. It's like a game or a dance. And Steve is smiling and naked and he looks sleepy and relaxed. And it's new, to see all of these things at once. Those broad shoulders are finally loose. Steve's posture is relatively sloppy. And he hasn't shaved since Bucky arrived. It makes him look young and careless. But it covers his face, so it's harder to see how handsome he is, which strikes Bucky as being wasteful in some way.

Bucky thinks of his own beard. How he's all but unrecognizable beneath it. He decides he'll get rid of it in the morning. He doesn't need to hide his face from Steve. And it's hard to feel kisses through hair.

Bucky follows Steve back to the bedroom with the plaid comforter. He lingers in the doorway in case he's got it wrong, but Steve shuffles over to the far side of the bed and holds the blankets up in invitation. Bucky sags in relief and then slides between the sheets.

They're both so tired it's all they can do to tie themselves into a sleepy knot of limbs and peck each other's cheeks before they pass out.

  


8  I’ve Stopped My Dreaming

 

It's late when they wake. Well after noon. Steve only gets out of bed because he has to piss. Then he climbs back in and Bucky winds around him again and they doze for half an hour.

Steve is on his right side and Bucky is on his left. They're usually the other way around. Bucky finds he likes this better because his right hand is free to touch Steve, and he can feel Steve much more clearly with his flesh. The pads of his fingers conform to the contours of Steve's features, so that Bucky is slightly altered by every touch.

When Steve opens his eyes again, Bucky is watching him in a slightly unfocused way.

“Do I have relatives, too?” Bucky asks.

The smile on Steve's lips is soft. Apologetic.

“You've got nieces, and you've got grand nieces and nephews, and you've great grand nephews,” Steve answers. “And that's just in the States. You've still got a couple O'Bearains over here, both in their eighties.”

“Did I have brothers or sisters or both?”

“You had a sister. Becky.”

“She's dead.”

“Yeah, Buck, I'm sorry. She passed in two thousand six. She married Jack Shanahan. He was a sweet kid – you liked him. He passed in ninety-nine.”

“And my – our – folks?”

“Your dad died in 'sixty-four and your mom died in 'seventy.”

Bucky nods and his face crumples.

“Can't remember 'em,” Bucky admits, crying because he has no idea who he lost.

“That's okay.”

“I can't remember my own mother,” Bucky chokes, shaking his head in horror.

“I'll remember her for both of us,” Steve soothes, stroking Bucky's hair back and kissing his cheek until his breathing has calmed. “You've got her lips,” Steve offers, gently. “And her hair and eyes. And you got her backside,” Steve says, knocking it lightly with his calf. “You've got your father's bones – same height and everything, and these are his shoulders. His jaw was just like yours. Forehead and chin, too,” Steve smiles, tapping the cleft. “And that's your grandma's nose – on your mother's side,” Steve finishes, rubbing his own against it.

“What about you?” Bucky asks. “Who do you look like?”

“I look like my mom, but with my dad's eyebrows. Looked even more like her when I was fourteen, before my nose got busted the first time.”

Bucky pets the bumps in the bridge of Steve's nose again.

“You got any other relatives in the States?” Bucky asks.

“No.”

So we weren't just running from SHIELD, Bucky realizes. We were running from... nothing. From no one. From emptiness. From strangers. From the family Steve doesn't have.

Running toward blood. Toward ancestors and descendents.

Bucky wishes he could offer those things. He wants to shelter Steve in his veins.

The best he can offer is his arms, so he wraps Steve up in them a little tighter and Steve hums.

“You've got me,” Bucky tells him, and he can feel Steve nodding against his neck.

“Thank you, Buck.”

At four, they hear Maureen's footsteps walking down the driveway, so they scramble into clothes and hustle downstairs.

Steve's hair is a mess. So is Bucky's. Their faces are puffy and pillow-creased. There's sleep in the corners of their eyes.

They're still trying to fix each other up when she knocks on the door.

“Maureen, hi. Sorry,” Steve says, smiling and fiddling with an unruly patch of hair on the right side of his head as he ushers her in.

“All right, lads?”

“Yeah, good, thanks,” Steve says, and Bucky nods in sleepy agreement.

She came by to see if they need anything for supper. Her eyes go wide when she looks in the fridge. Thor filled it to the brim. The cupboards are stuffed, too.

“You want anything, you come up straight away and ask. Don't make do without,” she says.

“Thanks,” Steve says, and Bucky echoes it a second later from where he's leaning, bleary-eyed, against the sink.

Maureen smiles.

“Go back to bed, boys.”

“We look that bad, huh?” Steve asks.

“You look like you belong there,” she says.

“Fair enough,” Steve laughs, and she squeezes his elbow and says goodnight.

They're too hungry to go straight back to bed, so they have oatmeal with butter, honey, and cinnamon for breakfast. It's deliciously hot. Bucky hangs his head over it and breathes in the scented steam. He can still smell the spice in his hair afterward.

Breakfast wakes them up and makes them hungrier.

Once Steve has the dishes done, he starts making their dinner, which is also their lunch.

Bucky grabs a knife, sharpens it carefully against his arm, lathers his beard with dish soap, and shaves his face over the wastebasket.

There isn't a single nick on his skin when he's finished.

Steve stares, smiling, for a long time.

“Can you do mine after dinner?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods.

Bucky sits at the table, watching, as Steve simmers a sauce on the stove, boils enormous noodles, mixes cheeses with eggs and oregano, browns meat, and layers it all in a wide dish.

An hour later, Steve bends over to peek in the oven and Bucky sees a double image of a smaller Steve overlaid on reality.

“You used to do all the cooking,” Bucky says, and Steve turns, smiling.

“Yeah. You worked all day. I picked up shifts slinging newspapers when I could, but that was in the mornings. Makin' you dinner was the least I could do.” Steve is blushing a little bit. “Mom taught me. I used to cook for her, too.”

“You were always afraid you were gonna burn it,” Bucky remembers.

“We couldn't really afford to waste food.”

Bucky nods.

“I liked it,” Bucky says.

“My cooking?”

“Coming home and seeing you cooking. Like we were an old married couple. Used to pinch your bottom when you were bent over like this.”

“You did,” Steve agrees, and he grins and goes back to spying on his lasagne.

Bucky goes back to spying on Steve's bottom. Steve's bottom was a good thing before. There's more of it now. Bucky reasons that makes itmore good. He wouldn't go as far as saying that it's better, though, and he isn't sure why his brain insists on the distinction.

Steve says the lasagne has to rest after it comes out of the oven or it will be soupy and burn the hell out of their mouths.

Bucky says it's just being lazy and pinches off a cheesy piece of pasta that's sticking up in the corner of the casserole dish. The kitchen has smelled delicious for the last twenty minutes and it's all Bucky can think about.

Steve's arm floats up and stops Bucky's wrist.

“You wanna burn your mouth?” Steve asks. He's trying to look stern and worried, but his eyes are sparkling and the corners of his mouth keep flicking up.

“Maybe,” Bucky admits, looking longingly at the food between his fingertips.

Steve snorts.

“Blow on it first or I ain't gonna feel sorry for you when your taste buds hurt,” Steve warns.

Bucky does as instructed. He's only been chewing for two seconds when he hums and grabs more. He barely blows on the second bite. He doesn't blow on the third at all.

Steve is leaning back against the counter, laughing softly and shaking his head.

“What's so funny?” Bucky asks, around a mouthful of cheese.

“You were like this with coffee, too. I never understood how you didn't put yourself in the hospital. You always drank it so hot I couldn't even stand to touch your mug without wrapping a towel around it.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps picking at their dinner until Steve shoos him away and starts serving it up.

Bucky requests the corner piece because he likes the crispy bits of cheese.

Steve makes spinach the next night and Bucky wrinkles his nose as he chews his first bite.

“You sure this stuff is safe to eat?” Bucky asks, staring at the lank green leaves that hang from his fork. He looks genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “It's not poisonous, I promise.”

“It makes my teeth feel like... thistle.”

“Here,” Steve says, and he smiles and scoops it off of Bucky's plate before piling it onto his own.

Bucky replaces it with a second helping of au gratin potatoes.

For Steve, Bucky not wanting things is even better than Bucky wanting things. Bucky knowing that he can say no gives Steve tremendous peace of mind.

By the end of the first week, Bucky doesn't brace himself and grimace anymore before he asks questions. He doesn't lick his teeth in anticipation of a rubber guard being inserted between them afterward. Doesn't follow quite so closely at Steve's heels all day.

Bucky likes to lie on his back on the couch reading. He's addicted to cookbooks. The information in them is so useful. And the pictures are wonderful.

Steve cuts a bunch of post-it notes into little strips and Bucky uses them to flag the recipes he wants Steve to make. Then Steve goes through and compiles a grocery list based on the ingredients.

But, mostly, Bucky sleeps.

On sunny days, he naps on the sofa while Steve reads or makes dinner or does laundry or draws his portrait. The living room is darker than any of the bedrooms and makes for deeper sleeping.

On cloudy days, Bucky sleeps upstairs. Sometimes he lies in Steve's bed and the scent of Steve's skin that's seeped into the sheets is enough to lull him to sleep. But sometimes he wants the fluffy feather-bed in the room full of pressed flowers. They don't sleep there at night, so the mattress doesn't smell much like Steve yet. Bucky's solution is to ask Steve to take naps with him.

Steve is happy to oblige. Sometimes he sleeps, too, but more often he lies awake and listens to Bucky breathing. Watches his face go slack and his lips pop open. Tracks the progress of the saliva that's trickling out the corner of Bucky's mouth and pooling on the pillow. Follows Bucky's eyes as they dart back and forth beneath the lids and sees the tiny blood vessels that give color to them.

He keeps a mental record of the shadows around Bucky's eyes. Sometimes they're a pale wash of umber that spans the lower orbit. Sometimes they're a glossy crescent of plum at the inner corners. Sometimes they're just the faintest touch of lavender flicked in tiny arcs below the eyebrows.

But Bucky always smells the same. The perfumes of the shampoos and soaps they're using float above, but beneath them Bucky's scent remains unchanged from their days back in Brooklyn.

Salt. Oil. Rust. Cream.

It makes Steve understand why dogs like to roll in things. He wants Bucky's scent all over him. Wants a bloodhound to be hard-pressed to tell them apart.

And he can feel Bucky's pulse everywhere they're pressed together, a constant reminder that his best friend is alive and safe. And it's so warm and soft in the double bed with its fluffy feather topper.

It all makes Steve feel rich. He has Bucky, warmth, comfort, and food in his belly.

Heaven has nothing on this.

Thor joins them for coffee at eleven on Thursdays. He brings giant thermoses of espresso for Steve and Bucky and a colossal latte for himself.

He also brings the bulk of their groceries.

But there are always surprises.

Books on quantum mechanics and astrophysics for Bucky.

Books on art for Steve that will be stolen by Bucky as soon as Steve has finished them. Later, they'll reappear on – or in – the dresser in Bucky's bedroom.

There are sketchbooks so nice Steve's almost afraid to use them. Richly pigmented pencils and pastels. Buttery conté crayons and delicate vines of charcoal.

Bucky steals a few of these things, too. He always did like to draw.

Clothes come for Bucky every week. Thor can eyeball his size. He looks lovely in pale grey tops and indigo bottoms, so that's what Thor brings.

Running shoes are requested. And baseball caps and pale pink gloves so that they can go outside on sunny days without the risk of being identifiable in satellite photos.

At the end of the first month, Thor asks Bucky what he wears most often and Bucky admits that he and Steve just wear their pajamas all day unless they have company or they're leaving the house to go jogging or sketching.

Thor smiles at this and brings fleece, flannel, and jersey sleepwear with him the following week.

Thor also brings reports from Natasha.

SHIELD is still looking for the Winter Soldier.

They still don't know Bucky is alive.

Known and suspected HYDRA agents are keeping their heads down and avoiding each other like plague for fear of implicating themselves and each other.

Bucky gives Thor the coordinates of the HYDRA locations he's been to, though he doesn't know if they're still active or even extant – some are from the forties. Thor reports back to Nat and together they set up surveillance equipment of their own. They can't have anyone knowing how they're picking their targets, because then it would be known they have a source for the intel, and the identity of said source would be pretty obvious.

By the sixth week, Steve and Bucky have a comfortable routine.

In the mornings, they go jogging before sunrise so that no one will see them. The exercise seems to make Bucky sleep more soundly; his nightmares have subsided significantly since they started this regimen.

Today, Steve is standing in the yellow light of the entryway taking off his shoes after their run. He keeps his legs straight and bends at the waist, stretching his hamstrings as he unties his laces.

Bucky walks past and pinches a generous portion of Steve's right buttock, then pats it twice.

“I guess all this runnin's good for somethin',” Bucky says, heading to the kitchen to pour them both some water.

Steve snorts and pretends that his face is only red from being upside down.

Still a tease and a flirt, Steve marvels. Right down to his core.

Steve knows his butt is getting bigger. And it is, indeed, from all the running. Bucky is as competitive as he ever was, so they've been doing sprints. Racing the clock and each other. Bucky never does anything by halves.

Steve knows Bucky sees everything, so it's unsurprising that the progress of his glutes has not gone unnoticed.

It seems the growth will not go unmentioned either.

Building Steve a bigger bottom is fine by Bucky: more Steve can only ever be a good thing.

A week later, Bucky is drinking orange juice out of the carton when he hears a soft flapping sound behind him and feels a light sting on his left buttock. When he turns, he sees Steve twirling a dish towel.

“We use cups in this house, punk. They ain't just for decoration,” Steve says.

Steve's features twist into wonderful shapes as he tries to resist smiling. His teeth keep peeking out between his lips. His eyes are nearly shut and his cheeks are faintly flushed.

Bucky finds it contagious. His skin feels warmer than before. His blood rushes to his face as though it needs to cool off. His heart beats a hair faster.

Sometimes the mere sight of Steve is enough to have this effect on him: Steve with his lower lip between his teeth and a frown on his forehead, bent over his sketchbook in ferocious concentration; Steve with his arms resting on the headboard as he stares out at the sea; Steve licking butter off his fingers as he absentmindedly eats his toast; Steve's face, slack and defenseless, asleep before his own.

But when Steve touches him like this – these little smiling teasing touches - the response is stronger. His face will flush almost instantly and he'll court Steve's attention.

Bucky smirks and raises the carton of orange juice to his lips again.

Steve grins and gently whips Bucky's backside while Bucky drains the OJ.

“I have it on good authority that's my mother's bottom you're beatin',” Bucky says.

Steve blushes and smiles softly, then steps closer and bends in half.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Barnes,” Steve says, very solemnly, to Bucky's butt, and then pecks the spot he whipped in apology. Afterward, he straightens and digs his fingers into Bucky's flanks until Bucky is laughing and squirming.

So far, Steve can get Bucky to smile with jokes and teasing and pleasure, but tickling is the only path to outright laughter.

Steve will take what he can get.

Tonight, after their shared shower, Bucky turns right out of the bathroom instead of taking their usual left, and heads toward the room that's his own. Steve never goes in it without being invited, so Bucky is accustomed to extending invitations.

Steve stands naked in the hallway, staring, until Bucky stops and looks back over his shoulder.

“You comin'?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods.

Bucky's pulse is a little high. Thirty-beats per minute. His skin was flushed from the shower, but the color had begun to fade. Now he's blushing again.

He's getting what he wants, so he's feeling clever, but he isn't yet sure if Steve has seen through him.

Bucky's closet is full of clothes, but his dresser is full of books. They keep their pajamas in Steve's room, because that's where they both go after they've bathed. But Bucky wants this Steve - the Steve that belongs only to him. The one from the shower. The wet, naked, warm, relaxed, and beautiful best friend.

Bucky climbs into the bed and holds up the blankets, asking Steve in.

Steve hums a happy sound and slips in beside him.

Bucky listens to the feathers rustling beneath Steve's limbs and hears the weave of the sheets zipping against Steve's skin.

And then Steve rolls onto his side so they can huddle up together as they always do.

No air between them.

Zeros from head to toe.

Warm, safe, soft, and humid: everything Bucky's time in cryo was not.

Bucky thinks his skin must remember those parched icy days; its thirst for this is unquenchable. He has his fingers threaded through Steve's hair so that the wet strands are gathered between the digits. The air in the house is sixty-eight point four, but their skin is ninety-eight point six, so they make each other sweat when they're pressed together like this. Bucky loves being bathed in the salty dew that beads up from within Steve's body. It feels like Steve is some peachy aloe plant, soothing him. And, at the base of their bellies, the coarse curls of hair hold onto the water from their shower, so the tender shapes of their sex are nestled in damp fur.

Bucky wishes he and Steve were members of a more permeable species. That their membranes would dissolve wherever they're pressed together so their blood could course through each other's veins.

As it is, his options are limited. The tear ducts, ear canals, and nostrils are too tiny. The meatus and urethra remind him of catheters, and anyway there's no part of Steve that's small enough to fit within him that way. Bucky balks from the anal canal and rectum. During his days as Zola's guinea pig, he was required to void his bowels and bladder prior to experiments so that fear and pain wouldn't scare the piss and shit out of him. But he couldn't reliably move his bowels on command, so he was often asked to give himself enemas. If nothing ever goes in Bucky's ass again, it will be too soon.

And, anyway, he wants to give Steve something that isn't literally a shit-hole. Steve deserves things that are sweeter.

He doesn't want to fuck Steve, either. His mind rejects the word in conjunction with Steve Rogers. It has ugly connotations.

Fuck as in ruin.

Fucked and screwed as in doomed and damaged.

Sex is all right by Bucky.

Intercourse.

Mating.

Mate. Verb. 1: “to equal, rival,” 1590s as “to match, couple, marry, join in marriage.” Also, of animals, “to pair for the purpose of breeding.” Related: Mated; mating.

Mate. Noun. 1: “associate, fellow, comrade,” mid-14c., also “companion (late 14c.), from Middle Low German mate, gemate “one eating at the same table, messmate.”

We eat together all the time.

Mates.

Married.

Couple.

Lovers.

Love. Noun 1. an intense feeling of deep affection

      1. a person or thing that one loves.
      2. Synonyms: beloved, dear, dearest, darling, sweetheart, angel, honey



Love. Verb 1. feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone.

                Synonyms: adore, idolize, worship.

Worship.

Praise.

Celebrate.

Cherish.

Steve is goodness. Allied with angels. Pilgrims should be beating a path to his door.

And Steve is beautiful. Kind. Lovely. It only makes sense to worship him. Love him. Make love to him.

Praise comes from lips, Bucky remembers.

Bucky leans in and pulls Steve's upper lip between his own. The smooth wet skin within slides against his mouth and makes him hum. Steve takes a deep breath that presses their breasts together pleasantly.

Then Bucky nips Steve's lower lip. It's fuller and more flexible. More of it fits into Bucky's mouth. He sucks it lightly and Steve makes a soft sound in the back of his throat.

Bucky sucks it harder to hear the sound again and his efforts are rewarded. He can feel their heartbeats coming faster. Their breathing is changing, too. Tighter and more conscious as their lungs politely attempt to avoid interrupting their kisses.

Steve makes a new – and, to Bucky's mind, marvelous – noise when Bucky lightly traces his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. It's like a whimper, and Steve reflexively curls his hips in a little as he utters this cry.

Bucky tilts his head and licks across the seam of Steve's lips until they part for him and he can lick inside.

He can feel sharp teeth and a velvety tongue. Wet open heat. The fleshy ridge that runs the length of the upper palate, echoing the underside of a man's penis. The plush cushions of the cheeks, soft and thick and pulling tight around his tongue as Steve sucks him softly.

And he's inside Steve. He can taste, touch, smell, see, and hear his friend.

Steve is letting him have everything.

A feast.

Generous the way only a saint could be.

Steve gives Bucky's tongue a firmer suck and Bucky's hips shift of their own accord, as if they share some unseen connection with his mouth.

Steve's breath is hot against Bucky's skin. Steamy. And Steve's breast is drumming against Bucky's chest in a hypnotic rhythm. On top there's the full swell of the ribs as Steve inhales, pressing their breasts tight together; below, there's the lighter tapping of Steve's heart as it echoes the motions in Bucky's own veins.

Their heartbeats are most apparent between their legs where the blood is plentiful and close to the surface. Their cocks throb slightly with every pulse. Bucky has an erection. Steve does, too, and Bucky is pleased about it - it means Steve wants to mate with him as well.

Bucky presses his lips between Steve's lips and uses his tongue to give little coaxing strokes to Steve's tongue, urging it into his own mouth so he can suck on it.

Steve lets him.

And now Bucky has Steve inside himself. All that warmth, kindness, and goodness is existing within him.

And willingly.

Steve tilts his head and traces the inner arch of Bucky's upper teeth. He laves Bucky's tongue with swirling strokes and feels Bucky's tongue answering with swerving motions of its own. He nips and sucks Bucky's lips while Bucky pouts and puckers back at him, clasping and embracing his mouth.

Bucky writhes gently against Steve and they both hum, slowly rolling their hips as their cocks slide and grind against the damp skin of their stomachs.

Steve's arms are tight around Bucky - his right is under Bucky's neck and his left is low around Bucky's waist with the fingers splayed over the base of Bucky's back.

Bucky would like Steve's left hand to be lower, so he reaches back and sets it there.

Steve groans and then gives Bucky's backside a grateful squeeze.

Bucky wants their bodies to match again, so he slides his hand down Steve's spine until he's cupping a perfectly curved buttock, too.

Steve gasps as Bucky kneads his ass and pushes in on it to drive their hips together even harder.

All of their muscles are flexing and bracing. It's growing difficult to breathe. They're struggling to maintain the rhythm of their hips.

For Bucky, it feels like Steve is tickling him everywhere at once. Like he needs to laugh to let it all out.

Steve moans into Bucky's mouth and Bucky can feel the vibrations in his teeth. He moans back - a muffled echo – and Steve holds him tighter. Steve sucks Bucky's tongue again and flexes his fingers on Bucky's ass, grinding their hips together hard. Bucky thrusts two more times and then cries out quietly as he comes on the base of Steve's belly.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve breathes, and buries his face in Bucky's neck. His hips pump just once more before he paints Bucky's stomach with semen.

They wrap their arms around each other's ribs again and lie still, panting and pressing dazed kisses to the skin in front of their lips.

We match again, Bucky thinks, and marvels at their relentless symmetry.

He can feel the fluid between their bellies seeping down their sides toward the sheets.

Their hearts and lungs are slowing in tandem.

Their limbs are gradually going slack.

They sag into the bed and roll half-way onto their backs.

Steve runs his fingers through the wet patch on his stomach and then licks them clean.

Bucky mirrors him. He can taste the pineapple they had last night for dessert. And he can't tell whose semen is whose. It's not just one of them anymore. It's all commingled. No sorting it out again.

Semen, Bucky thinks. Noun. Latin. “Seed of plants, animals, or men...” figuratively “origin, essence, principle, cause.”

Essence.

Essential.

Necessary.

Need.

Sustenance.

Steve is eating me and I'm eating Steve. His intestines will convert me into energy so that his heart will beat and his lungs will breathe.

Cause.

Object.

Objective. Noun 1: a thing aimed at or sought; a goal.

Syn: aim, intention, purpose, target, goal, intent, object, end, idea, point, design, plan, ambition, aspiration, desire, hope.

Purpose.

Bucky is pleased to think of this as his purpose.

Target.

Plan.

Mission.

Mission: Noun. 1 important assignment carried out for political, religious, or commercial purposes.

Syn: Assignment, commission, expedition, journey, trip, undertaking, operation, task, job, work, duty, labor, charge, trust.

Trust, noun, from Old Norse traust “help, confidence, protection, support,” and verb, c.1200, from Old Norse treysta “to rely on, make strong and safe.”

I rely on Steve. He helps me with everything. He makes me strong and safe. I trust him. He trusts me. He sleeps in my arms every night.

Bucky looks at his arms.

Both of the limbs are strong, but only one of them is safe.

The other is a bomb, and it's pinned between their bodies, poised to kill them both.

  
  


9  And If I Seem To Be Afraid

 

“I have to go someplace where I can't hurt you,” Bucky says, and Steve's eyes re-focus and meet Bucky's gaze.

“You're not going to hurt me.”

“My arm might,” Bucky says, rolling out of bed and walking toward the dresser.

“How? You're not-”

“Detonator,” Bucky says, and Steve's face goes white and stricken.

“Buck,” Steve says, rising and flipping on the lights to let him see Bucky's face better.

“You gotta stay back, Steve.”

Bucky is rushing into clothes. He waves Steve away and then heads out into the hall and down the stairs.

“Buck, please,” Steve begs, still on Bucky's heels, “Stay here where you're safe.”

“Then you've gotta go,” Bucky answers.

Steve shakes his head.

“Please don't make me do that.”

“I don't want to get you killed,” Bucky says, firmly. “It's a big place. I'll stay on the east edge of the lot and you can stay here.”

Steve is still shaking his head and standing too close.

Bucky's file was so slim. Steve barely scratched the surface of Bucky's days as The Asset.

Maybe if Steve knows more he'll see some sense and stay away from me, Bucky hopes.

“I shot a woman in her sleep,” Bucky says

Steve just blinks and sends more tears spilling down his cheeks.

“I slit a man's throat in front of his wife. Slit hers, too.”

Steve sees the game now.

“And was that your idea?” Steve asks.

“No, but I shoulda known better.”

“Did you know your own name when you did it?”

“No,” Bucky admits, and then frowns. He'll have to use something sharper.

“I killed Tony Stark's folks,” Bucky says, and hears air whistling into Steve's nose at a good clip.

“Does a gun get a choice?” Steve asks. “Did you know why you were doing it? Was there any information available to you that might have given you a reason not to do it?”

Silence.

“Well?” Steve asks.

“No!” Bucky barks.

“And what would have happened if you hadn't completed the mission?”

Bucky says nothing, but turns his head and looks pained.

“That's what I thought,” Steve sighs. “They don't say 'war is hell' for nothin', Buck.”

“What do you know about it?” Bucky snaps, and turns his back on Steve. He stares out the window but there are no lights outside, so he can't see anything. Only his own reflection. The last thing he wants to look at. The world at night seems almost smug to Bucky - it sleeps in a peace that he can't believe in anymore, however hard he tries.

Steve just snorts.

“Well it cost me you. Twice. Jerk. That was the worst of it,” Steve says, and then slides down the wall and splays his legs out in front of himself, sitting like a marionette with its strings cut, staring at his naked feet. “But there were a thousand other shitty things,” Steve says softly. “The first one that really hit me was in Germany. This soldier was running to sound the alarm... but I was out of bullets. So I threw the shield.”

Bucky watches Steve's reflection in the windowpane. Steve's cheeks are white and his nostrils are wide.

“Cut him clean in half,” Steve continues, at a whisper. “And I was so relieved that I'd stopped him in time... until I ran past him and saw his face. Just a fucking kid,” Steve chokes. “Sixteen, tops. Freckles on his cheeks. Farm boy. Cute as a button. Out playing soldier. Too young to know his ass from a hole in the ground. And I ripped him right in two. Sent all his insides spilling out into the filth.”

Bucky sees Steve crying in the window. Rain sliding down the wrong side of the glass.

“No one ever really comes back from war,” Steve says.

Bucky knows it. And he hates it.

The boys they were before the war lie dead in empty graves.

“I don't know what's good or bad anymore outside of you,” Bucky admits. “It wears me out, trying to keep track of it all the time. Trying to get it right.”

“I was working for HYDRA and I didn't even know it,” Steve says. “Sometimes we'll never know.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“The best we can,” Steve says, shrugging and giving a soggy laugh. “Golden rule is still pretty good, I guess. Do unto others...”

“Do you want to get me killed?” Bucky asks.

“Hell no,” Steve breathes.

“Well I don't want to get you killed, either,” Bucky says, staring down at his left arm. “I'm not safe, Steve. And you know what I've done. I'm dirty.”

“You ain't been dirty a day in your life,” Steve tells him.

Bucky goes still and his eyes open wide.

He takes a shaky breath, then silently slips out the back door and disappears into the darkness.

  


10 I Had A Lover

 

The first time Steve got Bucky back, he kissed him.

They were striding side by side in front of everyone who could walk, hop, hobble, or crawl out of HYDRA's hell-hole.

Steve couldn't stop smiling. The sort of smile that made tears flow down his cheeks in a steady stream. He had his left arm thrown around Bucky's shoulders as they were wading through a meadow. Bucky had looked over at him, beaming. Steve caught him staring, tugged him closer, and kissed his cheek long and hard.

A couple of guys whistled behind them.

“I saw 'im first, fellas - you'll have to get in line,” Bucky called, and then looked back over his shoulder in mock surprise. “Shit, Stevie - they're linin' up already.”

There were more whistles and hoots and scattered laughter. The men were relieved to be capable of irreverence: it meant they weren't dead.

And Bucky had been right for all those years before: Steve would kiss him in public. They had armed men at their backs and Steve was kissing him. And Bucky had been wrong all those years before, too: he had never been safer than he was now with Steve's lips on his cheek.

Steve had grinned and jostled Bucky gently, then dropped his arm around Bucky's waist to help bear him up a little as they plodded along at the head of their party.

Bucky had been filled with a pride that was almost ferocious. Feral, possessive, explosive, and contagious.

When they got back to their station, he wanted everyone to cheer for Steve the way Steve had always deserved. And when he asked them to do it, they did, without hesitation. But Bucky was furious that it took a physical transformation for everyone to see that they should be proud of Steve Rogers. It was unacceptable that this was the first time anyone had ever applauded.

He was also furious that Steve found a way into the war. That Steve had already seen so much ugliness and would soon have no choice but to make more. Bucky knew that to win a battle meant you had to be a better killer than the other guy. He half wanted Steve to pack up and go home, but he was afraid to let Steve out of his sight. If Uncle Sam did this to Steve, there was no telling what else they'd do to him – at least Bucky could look out for him like this.

Bucky was also fearful of the world's new-found awareness. Before, he was the only one in on the secret – Steve Rogers: the perfect man. Suddenly, Bucky had to compete with an entire army, and he was in no shape to do it. When a nurse caught sight of him, he had to swallow down bile and politely refuse medical attention. He stuck close to Steve's side, glad to be swept along in all the fuss, safe in the bubble of pride and awe that surrounded his best friend.

Still, it was strange to hear Steve's voice emanating from its new height and resonating through all that chest. And those broad shoulders were breaking Bucky's heart. He never got to say goodbye to Steve's body. Never got to say hello to it. Would never get a chance to love his fearless little waif the way he wanted to.

Peggy made Bucky nervous. She could see everything. Right through him. And she met Steve before. She met Bucky's bent little Stevie from Brooklyn whose favorite color was blue because it was the only one he could fucking see.

But Peggy didn't know that. Didn't know what Steve's blood tasted like because it had splattered into her mouth during a fight. Didn't know how much he weighed because she'd carried him home unconscious in her arms. Didn't know where the scars were scattered under Steve's hair from when some asshole hit him over the head with a bottle.

But she did know how comfortable Steve was with his own death. Bucky heard about the grenade. These days he thinks of it as the prelude to the plane crash.

Bucky forgot that Steve could see everything - as long as it didn't directly involve himself: Steve had blinders on when it came to long hard looks in the mirror. Steve could tell that Bucky was an inch from going to pieces. He had waited in line by Bucky's side until Bucky had his bedroll, cot, and clothes and then he hustled Bucky off into his own tent.

Even in the dim light from Steve's torch, Bucky could see the anger and sadness twisting and tightening Steve's face as they undressed and more of Bucky's wounds and scars were revealed. The injuries were healing well enough that Bucky didn't need a doctor. Steve was relieved, since he knew Bucky wasn't willing to go anywhere near one.

Steve sat down on his cot and patted the space beside him until Bucky filled it while the bed squeaked weakly in protest. He draped a blanket over Bucky's body and wrapped a heavy arm around his waist, then turned to look him in the eye.

“For all I know, we're gonna get hit by a shell and die in our sleep,” Steve said, softly, and Bucky nodded.

Steve kissed Bucky's mouth first, guiding Bucky into it with his thumb in the cleft of Bucky's chin and his fingers curled under his jaw.

Then he started kissing everything else.

“I'm dirty,” Bucky breathed, giving Steve an out as Steve's mouth moved slowly down his spine.

“You ain't been dirty a day in your life,” Steve said, and kept on kissing.

Bucky's mind catches on that sentence now and veers into the oddities of English. He remembers the way some words are like roads that fork, splitting off into tines, all of them equally true.

Bucky had been muddy. Hadn't bathed in he-wasn't-sure-how-long. Filthy. But Steve deemed him clean, so Bucky had believed it. Safe, whole, and welcome exactly as he was. Awash in wounds and the stale sweat of fear dried salty on blood-streaked skin. But inside he felt like sunlight. Like Steve was baptizing him with kisses. Submerging him in something that was both a promise and an apology. More elemental even than sex. A wolf bathing her cub.

Sometimes Bucky would stop breathing: when Steve's lips were over his heart; when they pressed against the pulse on the inside of his elbow; when they dipped between his legs and Steve's breath tickled all the tender flesh nestled there as Steve rained careful kisses onto him; when Steve finally got to his toes and took each one into his mouth, making Bucky feel like they were both something holy. At the end of it, Bucky's body was his own again.

It wasn't easy, under the circumstances, but they tried to make up for lost time. Mostly with kisses. They never knew if they were going to have to get up and run, so they didn't want to be caught all tangled up with their pants around their ankles. But sometimes they'd be in the middle of nowhere, en route to the next suspected HYDRA site, and they'd risk taking each other in hand or mouth. And they were so quiet, biting back sighs and tapping I love yous into each other's skin with Morse code. But it was hard to muster any real fear about their fellow soldiers finding them out. Especially when their ears were good and the walls of tents were thin; Steve and Bucky knew they weren't the only ones seeking solace in a friend's arms every night. They could hear the little moans and murmurs and the wet smacking of lips throughout their camp. They could hear the tears of boys who were lonely or terrified. Hear the snores of those who no longer cared.

When they were staying in places that had solid walls, they would risk whispering their endearments into the pink curves of each other's ears. They were surprised to be so thrilled by things they already knew. Tiny sentences like I love you and I'm yours set the blood racing through their veins.

They wanted to kick themselves.

They could have gotten away with it.

All those years, they could have been lovers. No one would have heard them. They wouldn't have looked any more suspicious than they already did. They wasted what could have been their only shot, because they were afraid for each other. But after Zola and Schmidt they both knew there were far bigger things to fear in the world than beatings, death, and loss. HYDRA was cruelty of a magnitude they never imagined, and they wanted to tear it apart with their teeth.

Bucky realizes he's been doing it again. Wasting what could be the only chance he gets to be with Steve because he's afraid of what might go wrong. He's guaranteeing loss and heartbreak in his quest to avoid them. He's running in fear and hiding from life. Letting someone else's hate steal his love. Breaking his vow of staying with Steve until the end of the line, wherever it may lie. Forgetting that Steve promised him the same thing.

Bucky stares up at the stars and thinks of the slim odds of his very existence.

Of the tiny points of light in all that darkness.

Of Steve, Thor, Natasha, Sam, and Maureen - the tiny points of kindness amid the Earth's masses.

Of how the light he's looking at is far older than he is. Fallen fruit from the heavens' youth.

He feels like the stars. He's moved on. Evolved. Become someone new, whether he likes it or not. But the images of his past are what the world will see. They'll outlast him. The boy from Brooklyn is dead and so is The Winter Soldier, but he has to wear their faces for the rest of his life. Their photographs are the ones that will be in books and museums. He has to remember who they were and why, because their lives and bodies were once his own. He's chained to history with his skin.

Just like Steve.

Steve was once a soldier, so the world bound him to battle.

Bucky is the only one left alive who remembers what Steve had hoped to be before there was a war. Steve wanted to do comics, ad pages, and illustrations because they were heavy on line-work and he didn't have to worry about color.

Now Steve can see in color, so he's learning to paint. Steve wants to hold onto loveliness. To make a record of it. To give it a lifespan. History to Steve is marble boys from Greece and oils from Italy. English watercolors and French Impressionists. Abstract Expressionists and Postmodernism. Giza, Notre Dame, and Lascaux. It's written with brushes more often than bullets, and Steve far prefers the former.

Steve has the capacity to be brutal, but he remembers what it was to be fragile, so he's most often gentle. The world sees the muscles and imagines that strength is Steve hitting a guy, when, really, strength is Steve letting a guy hit him.

It occurs to Bucky that HYDRA and SHIELD knew nearly nothing of Steve.

Their files on him would read the same whether or not Steve was breathing.

Superficial statistics.

They don't mention that Steve is a good cook.

That he's good at being alone because he had all that practice back when he was sick in bed as a boy.

That solitude made him a daydreamer and taught him to draw.

That he always smells clean.

That he runs the way children run – up and down hills, over stones, and through trees – choosing the path that holds the most pleasure.

That his eyes are not merely blue, but beautiful.

That he'll sing you to sleep.

That, if he really loves you, he'll let you kill him.

That, when he's drawing at the kitchen table, he forgets he's tall enough to get the Ritz Crackers down from the top shelf and will ask you to do it for him.

That he likes dames as much as fellas.

That he's on the side of the angels.

That he's more merciful and forgiving than God.

Thor arrives at eleven, takes the key from under the mat at the front door, and lets himself in, calling, “Coffee and a surprise, Captain.”

Steve is still on the floor in the hall at the back of the house, leaned naked against the wall with his legs akimbo in front of him. He looks across the living room and sees Thor with a long thin bundle slung over his shoulder. It looks like a rug, but when Thor sets it down, it stands up on its own and unwraps itself.

Natasha.

“Are you hurt?” Thor asks, seeing Steve on the floor and rushing over. Natasha is on his heels.

Steve shakes his head no. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. His eyes are red and his face is tight. The corners of his mouth have turned down and his forehead is wrinkled.

“What happened?” Natasha asks.

“He left,” Steve says, with his eyes on the back door. “There's a bomb in his arm. Maybe. Or maybe that's just what they told him. He doesn't want it going off when I'm around.”

Steve's voice is rough and thick. Natasha wants to give him a mug of hot cream with a bar of chocolate melted into it.

“Where is he?” Thor asks.

“He said he'd just go to the eastern edge of Maureen's property.”

“I'll go,” Thor tells them, and Steve nods once and rasps his thanks.

“Come on,” Natasha says, softly, and offers Steve a hand to help him up off the floor.

He is heavier than he looks, but she's much stronger than she appears.

She walks him up to his room. His bed is made. The room smells as much like Bucky as it does Steve. There are stacks of paintings here and there. Landscapes. She can see the ocean out the window. She doesn't want to know where she is, so she averts her eyes as much as she can. She kept them closed throughout her flight with Thor.

Steve pulls on clothes and shakes his head.

“Sorry about all this,” Steve says, and bends to give her a hug. “It's so good to see you. Thanks for coming. I know the trip is pretty rough.”

She hugs him tight, kisses his cheek, and then holds onto his face, looking at him hard as she leans back just a little.

“Steve,” she says, and his face crumples.

She motions him back to sit on the bed.

“Everything was going so well,” Steve chokes, shaking his head. “He doesn't need to waste his time wondering when his past will catch up with him. He deserves his own life. And now he's back to worrying about me.”

“Worrying about you is his version of normal,” she reminds, gently. “Lately I don't feel like we get to pick the parts we play. He worries about you; you worry about him. That's the hand you two were dealt.”

Steve closes his eyes and gives her a tight smile.

Someone needs to worry about you two, she thinks .

She remembers the way HYDRA thought of Barnes.

The Asset.

SHIELD treated Steve the same way, but then SHIELD was HYDRA, so it's really no surprise. They made sure he was in one piece so they could use him. Sent him in to do the dirty work. Lied to him. Spied on him. Threw him into war right after he woke up from one.

Right after his suicide.

Jesus.

And they didn't give him a minute to mourn everything and everyone he lost.

And he lost everything and everyone. He lost his entire world.

“Anyone from our old outfit ever stop to ask you if you were okay?” she says.

Her voice is flat. Her face indifferent. The words themselves are the giveaway. It's strange for her to hear herself caring.

“People don't ask questions they don't want the answers to,” he tells her.

That's a no.

“Are you okay?” she continues, and he blinks.

“I have to be,” he says.

Another no, she thinks. They've made him into a machine.

Steve did-it-hurt?-a-little Rogers

Steve suicide-is-my-choice Rogers

Steve what-makes-you-happy?-I-don't-know Rogers

Steve it's-a-price-I'm-willing-to-pay(again) Rogers

Steve wants-a-friend Rogers.

That last one is progress, she realizes.

So far, the only people who've had the sense to provide Steve with friendship are from Asgard, the VA, and the early twentieth century.

Natasha hears Clint's voice in her head: You left yourself out of the count, knucklehead.

“No, you don't,” she says, and she lays her head on his shoulder and rubs his back while he hides his tears behind his right hand.

When he's done, she gets a cool wet washcloth for his face and sits with him until he settles.

“Things were going well, though, before today?” she asks.

Steve nods and his lips go to say the word We, but his throat closes up. He shuts his eyes tight, takes a deep breath, and tries again.

“We were having fun. Just being bums. Drawing and eating and lying around reading. Taking naps 'cause they never let him sleep. And he was coming into himself. He made jokes and smiled. He was flirty and handsy. And I was so-” Steve's voice cuts out again and he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.

“Happy,” she finishes, and Steve nods.

“You're allowed to be happy,” she says.

“Not if it makes him miserable. He's lost enough.”

She wonders how Steve has anything left to give. Wonders what he does instead of breaking. How it's possible that he isn't perpetually in pieces. It occurs to her that maybe he is in pieces and he still manages to be functional. That possibility frightens her.

She knows that the man who makes Steve happy has also made Steve impossibly sad.

She knows that caregivers live under enormous strain.

That they need respite and escape.

“Do you know how to dance?” she says.

“Never got to learn,” Steve answers, wincing. “Sorry - I haven't asked you anything about yourself. You still looking into ballet?”

“I've been trying out for every classical company that will see me. They all say I'm too big.”

“What?” Steve says, and she sees his jaw flex and his nostrils flare.

He looks pissed, and suddenly Natasha knows exactly what it's like to have an older brother.

Rather lovely.

“You've seen ballerinas, Steve. I'm more muscular.”

“And I'll bet it makes you a better dancer.”

“Bigger is never better in ballet,” she says, shrugging.

“Fuck that,” Steve spits.

He gets up and starts pacing, scowling and crossing his arms as he goes back and forth in the tiny bedroom.

“To hell with 'em,” Steve says. “Am I too big to learn ballet?”

Natasha beams at him.

Bucky hears Thor's cape flapping as Thor walks down the beach toward him.

He half-wonders if Thor is here to kill him for making Steve cry.

Bucky wouldn't blame him.

“Are you all right?” Thor asks, and Bucky nods.

“He still at the house?”

“Of course,” Thor says.

Bucky nods and breathes a sigh of relief.

Thor takes off his cape, wraps it around Bucky, and drops down beside him on the rocks.

The red fabric is warmer than it looks. Bucky gathers it to himself more tightly and sits with Thor, staring at the sea.

It's always odd to Thor to be on a realm that has no edges. He supposes a sphere is its own sort of eternity. The clouds he called are blurring the horizon line. He and Bucky are staring at a wall of pale grey-green. It's a perfect match for Loki's irises.

“I didn't visit my brother in prison,” Thor says, almost to himself. “I thought I was teaching us both a lesson we needed to learn. But even if I was right, it wasn't worth it. I lost our last year together. Left us both alone. And for nothing.”

Bucky nods.

They sit staring for half an hour before Bucky heaves himself up and reaches down to haul Thor to his feet.

Steve is practicing the five basic ballet positions in the kitchen with Natasha when Bucky and Thor come back inside.

Bucky can see that Steve was up all night crying - his face looks sore. He feels sick for hurting his friend.

Steve, he thinks. My own private angel, with scars like a saint's, who's kissed me in places that make God nervous.

“Hey,” Steve says, softly. He has his heels together and his toes turned out to his sides. His arms look like they're holding a ghost in front of him.

Bucky ducks under Steve's hands and inserts himself in Steve's embrace.

“I just want you safe,” Bucky whispers.

“I know. Thank you.”

“I hurt you, though - you've been cryin'.”

“So have you,” Steve sighs, frowning at Bucky's blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes.

“I missed you,” Bucky breathes, and hides his face in Steve's neck.

“I missed you too,” Steve says, and rubs Bucky's back. Bucky's face is chilly against Steve's skin. “You're cold. Come on.”

Steve bundles Bucky up at one end of the couch with Thor's cape, a spare comforter, and a mug of coffee. Steve sits in the middle with Nat beside him and they talk ballet while Bucky slowly migrates closer to Steve, insinuating himself under Steve's arm as he sips his espresso. When Bucky has drained his drink, he curls up with his head in Steve's lap so that Steve will rub his neck and play with his hair. Then he lifts the hem of Steve's tee shirt and presses his cold nose into the warm skin of Steve's stomach.

Thor is making them a late lunch that smells like it's composed primarily of bacon, for which they all silently thank their own versions of God and audibly thank Thor.

After they eat, Steve and Nat spend the rest of the afternoon dancing.

Bucky sits and trades stories with Thor.

Thor is grateful be able to talk freely about his brother. Bucky doesn't really give a shit that Loki started a war - he's done the same thing himself. It's a relief to know that, no matter how much he fucks up, there are folks like Thor and Steve in the world who will love him afterward anyway. It makes it easier for him to give value to his life: he trusts their judgment. If Thor loved Loki, he must have been something.

“How did you find him?” Thor asks. “You're not brothers.”

Bucky is excited because this is a question he knows the answer to – he remembered it two weeks ago and checked with Steve to see if he was right.

“We grew up in the same neighborhood. I was walking home after the first day of first grade and this sack of shit kid, Mike Dorr, was throwing rocks at birds in an alley.”

“I don't suppose he intended to eat them afterward.”

“Hell no,” Bucky scoffs. “And there was Steve, built like a mosquito, telling Mike to stop. When that didn't work, Steve stepped between the stones and the birds.”

“But the boy didn't stop throwing the stones” Thor predicts.

“Not until I knocked him over,” Bucky confirms. “Steve's always been the same. Guy was a shield before he carried one. Loves pigeons better than he loves himself.”

Thor nods and watches Steve, who's holding Nat up near the ceiling like she weighs nothing. She's grinning down at him. Thor catches flashes of her smile when her hair sways past her face.

Bucky is looking back and forth between Thor and Steve. The only resemblance he bears to either of them is in having blue eyes.

“You said he looked like me,” Bucky murmurs, remembering his first conversation with Thor.

“Aye,” Thor agrees, nodding and smiling softly as his eyes flow over Bucky's features.

“Long dark hair. Pale skin and eyes. Rosy lips. A great beauty by all accounts,” Thor says, smiling and squeezing Bucky's shoulders, which are under his left arm because Bucky wants to bask in warmth and the apple scent of angels and Steve isn't paying attention, so he's taking his chance. “But his features were long and hard where yours are short and soft,” Thor continues. “He was a bit taller than Steve. Slender. Quick. Clever with knives. He had a swift mind and a sharp tongue. And he was a brilliant mage.”

“He was a mage, too?” Bucky asks, eyes wide. He saw Thor take his armor off with magic when they got back to the house and it cemented Thor's status as divine in Bucky's mind.

“I can't count myself in his company. I know a few tricks, but he was a proper sorcerer. Which is not to say he didn't love tricks.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, and Thor grins.

“He made it look like he'd cut off my hand just before he fell. It was wonderfully gruesome. He was the god of mischief, and a trickster to the last.”

“Did he smell like apples, too?” Bucky asks, and Thor shakes his head no.

“Saffron is as close as Midgard gets to mimicking his scent.”

“What's saffron smell like?”

Thor takes Bucky to the kitchen, opens a cupboard, and spins a lazy Susan. Bucky can hear the tinkling of glass clinking together. Thor pops the cork out of a tiny bottle full of crocus stigmas and holds it under Bucky's nose.

Bucky breathes it in and then blinks tears down his cheeks. He nods. When he looks up he finds Thor's face in the same state as his own.

Natasha tells Steve to spend a lot more time stretching and that she'll come to see him again next week. Steve lends her extra clothes to keep her warm on her flight home and she kisses the corner of his mouth after she hugs him goodbye. Thor kisses Steve and Bucky on the lips and claps their backs soundly at the end of each embrace he gives them.

And then they're gone again.

Bucky watches Steve wash the dishes.

The languid warmth that settles over Bucky whenever Thor is nearby has evaporated. He's left with the mess he made at one o'clock this morning. The last thing he did when he and Steve were alone together was to hurt Steve very deeply.

It feels like Bucky's insides are fizzing. He's having a hard time sitting still. He can't stop twisting the hair that hangs down in front of his face.

The silence on the far side of the kitchen is enormous. Bucky hears water running, silverware clattering, suds popping, and Steve not speaking.

But Bucky doesn't want to talk to Steve while he's busy and his back is turned. It strikes him as unfair. Aggressive and cowardly.

And Bucky would prefer to see Steve's face before and during any conversations they have, because English is still messy to him and the visual cues are helpful.

Steve tips his head to crack his neck and then rolls his shoulders a few times, trying to loosen them up. His upper back is starting to ache. His eyes want to close. They're burning in his sockets from having run out of tears twelve hours ago.

He puts a chicken in the oven for their supper and then throws a salad together and sets it in the fridge to chill while he candies nuts.

“Thirsty?” Steve asks, afterward, pouring himself some water and hoping the moisture eventually makes its way to his eyeballs.

“Can we take a shower?” Bucky answers, and Steve smiles and huffs a tiny laugh.

“How about a glass of water and dinner first?” Steve says.

Bucky nods and Steve joins him at the table. When Steve hands him his drink, Bucky pets Steve's fingertips with his own as he takes the glass.

Steve looks up at him with a mix of joy and worry that makes Bucky want to keep his best friend in a room full of baby rabbits.

“You kissed me everywhere when you got me back from Zola,” Bucky says, and Steve gives a slow nod. “We were lovers all through the war.”

Steve takes a deep breath and nods again.

“Did I ruin it when I left last night?” Bucky asks. His face looks lost. His eyebrows are turned up in the centers over round wet eyes. His lips are tight and tipped down at the corners.

“No,” Steve says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “But if you really wanna go, don't let me get in your way. There's a whole world out there. I'm not gonna keep it from you. I won't hold you to things that happened a lifetime ago.”

Bucky watches while Steve sits staring at his drink.

Waiting for the ax to fall, Bucky thinks.

“I've seen the world,” Bucky says. “You've always been the best thing in it.”

Steve ducks his head down and his breast fills fast with a shocked breath. When he looks up, he gives Bucky a watery smile.

Bucky will take it.

After supper, Bucky gets the shower he asked for. He washes Steve's hair and scrubs his back, then holds him close and rubs the tension out of Steve's neck and shoulders as they rest under the hot spray.

Afterward, he takes Steve's hand and goes to Steve's room, leading Steve straight into bed so that they can't put pajamas on.

Steve smiles behind Bucky's back and pinches his bare ass.

They pull all the blankets up over their heads and huddle together while the bedding grows warm with their skin. Bucky runs his fingers slowly through Steve's hair, starting at his nape and going against the growth toward the crown, then lightly tugging and twisting the longer strands there. There are a thousand things Bucky wants to tell Steve - and even more he wants to ask - but Steve is tired. His breathing is deep and slow already. So Bucky leans in and quietly sings You're the Top. He remembered it a little over a week ago. It has most of what he wants to say tucked neatly within its lyrics anyway.

Steve snorts when Bucky calls him a turkey dinner.

Bucky offers a wordless prayer of gratitude to Cole Porter.

Morning lingers well into the afternoon as dense clouds keeps the sun at bay. Bucky is thankful for it. He suspects it's Thor's way of helping them catch up on the sleep they lost. The dim grey light is easy on their tired eyes. It muffles the bright roar of the sky and dulls the grass and sea. Makes it seem like all the world is asleep and that staying in bed is the only reasonable thing to do.

It's two-thirty. They've slept over eighteen hours. Their bladders have been counting every second. Bucky groans and staggers off to the bathroom while Steve keeps the bed warm. Then they swap. After that, Steve gets back in bed.

Their hunger pangs passed unremarked at eight in the morning, so they're free to enjoy the peace their bodies have been lingering in obliviously for over half the day. The soft bed and the silent house. The warm sheets and the scent of skin. The two hearts beating and four lungs breathing.

Bucky props himself up on his left elbow and Steve lazily rolls his head to his right to look up at him.

Bucky is frowning and his lips are poised for speech. It twists something in Steve to see it again - questions had been coming so easily.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” Steve whispers, and reaches to tuck Bucky's hair behind his ear.

Bucky's face goes soft and smooth.

Love, Bucky remembers. Synonyms : beloved, dear, dearest, darling, sweetheart, angel, honey.

After everything, Steve really does still love me.

“You're stubborn, you know that?” Bucky breathes, fond and relieved.

“You've been tellin' me since we were fourteen.”

Bucky smiles and leans down to kiss the lower right corner of Steve's mouth.

Then the upper left.

Then back across and up to the orbit of Steve's right eye. He traces the whole socket in slow circuit, painting it with soft presses of plump skin.

When Bucky is finished there, he crosses the bridge of the nose and alights on the ridge of the brow over Steve's left eye.

Steve sees the pattern. He knows where Bucky's lips will go next. They wreathe his throat in weightless pecks, then wet the scar on his right shoulder, mouthing it gently and moving it just slightly with the soft suction of kisses. It feels bare and raw to Steve in a way he isn't expecting. Like his body is still open there and Bucky's lips will come away bloody. It isn't painful – merely strange, and it occurs to Steve that they've both been neglecting themselves. They need to get back in touch with their own bodies. Bucky, especially. He needs to rediscover what's his. Steve will try to come up with a way to explain it just as soon as he's able to think straight.

The next press of Bucky's lips is a gentle dip into the exit wound in Steve's stomach, which tickles wonderfully, making Steve bend and huff.

Steve's back stays flat as Bucky kisses the scar on the front of the left thigh, but Steve's erection bobs tellingly above his belly. Bucky urges Steve to turn, so Steve rolls onto his right side and reveals the scars on the backs of his left flank and leg. They're both ticklish too, and Bucky lingers on them, teasing them pleasantly with hums and sucking nips.

Now Bucky has kissed all the scars - the pieces of Steve that belong to him. They're places he knows Steve has never been kissed before. Virgin skin, pink and shiny, glaring out at Bucky, insensible to apologies. The rest of Steve's skin is more forgiving, so Bucky will plead his case there.

Steve is about to roll back over when Bucky gently presses him down onto his belly. He straddles Steve's knees and then leans down and sways his head from side to side, dragging his hair along the creases where the buttocks meet the thighs. Steve jerks and squirms and makes a strangled sound, so Bucky does it again. This time, Steve shouts and all his muscles flex with laughter.

They used to play this game in their tent. By their old rules, Steve would have lost just now with all his yelling. Before, they were both undefeated - silent and still but for the trembling of their limbs as they tormented each other with tickling and licking and sucking. But now Bucky sees that the old rules are better off broken. Steve shouldn't be stifled. The whole world should be glad to hear him shout.

Bucky inhales deeply and then bends to gust a hot breath between the tops of Steve's thighs. He hears a tiny sound escape through Steve's nose: a faint tapping grunt, as air hits the upper palate and then bounces back up through the sinuses.

Bucky cautiously lifts his right knee and sets it between both of Steve's, then pushes it out to his side. Steve lets him, so he repeats it with their left legs until he's kneeling between Steve's parted thighs and staring at the wonderful curves of Steve's ass. He cups the cheeks gently, following their contours. The blond dusting of hair that coats them presses up against his palms and makes him remember peaches. He kisses the dimples in the base of Steve's back while he kneads Steve's waist. He can see Steve's ribs rising and falling with quickening breaths.

And then Bucky centers his lips over Steve's spine and slowly descends, pressing his face a little farther into the cleft of Steve's ass with every kiss, breathing in the metallic musk of skin and feeling Steve's muscles flexing against his face.

Steve whines when Bucky presses a kiss over his hole, then arches his back to let Bucky reach his perineum.

Bucky's mouth is watering. He puts it to good use.

Steve groans long and low as Bucky licks a slow stripe from his balls to the base of his back. He curses quietly when Bucky reverses and drags the underside of his tongue back down through the wet trail on his flesh. Bucky repeats the circuit again and again in smooth steady passes until Steve's hips are working gently against the mattress and his hands are fisted in the sheets.

Steve's ass is soaked with Bucky's saliva. He can feel it trickling down along the insides of his thighs. Bucky begins rocking his head lightly from side to side so that the tip of his nose cuts a zigzagging path through his tongue's wake.

“Oh God, Buck... this is... I'm gonna,” Steve pants.

Bucky climbs off to Steve's side and rolls Steve onto his back, then resumes his position between the sprawl of Steve's thighs. He draws the seam of Steve's scrotum with the tip of his tongue while Steve strains to keep his eyes fixed on the sight. Bucky's cheeks are flushed. Shining with sweat and spit. His eyelids are heavy, but he's staring back up at Steve, watching it all play out on Steve's face.

Bucky licks his way up the length of Steve's cock, knocking it from side to side with each dip and swerve of his tongue and feeling the foreskin gliding up with him.

When he gets to the tip, he plants his lips on it and hums. Steve's lashes flutter and Bucky hums again, inadvertently, at the sight. Steve's head falls back for a second before he catches himself and raises it up again so that he can keep watching. Bucky's lips look like sex no matter what he's doing with them, but when he's doing this, it's all Steve can think about. The world could cease to exist. It very well has, for all Steve knows.

Bucky licks his lips without removing them from Steve's skin, so he's just running the tip of his tongue along the silky head of Steve's cock. Bucky makes it better by taking Steve's shaft in his hand and stroking toward the crown so that the foreskin bunches up around the tip. He runs his tongue through the sensitive folds of flesh while Steve's hips arch upward.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, and Bucky presses a hot wet kiss to the head of Steve's cock, then lets his lips spread and descend until he's face down in Steve's crotch with his nose in fur and his chin perching on Steve's balls.

Bucky feels hungry and sated all at once. Greedy and generous. And happy, above all, with Steve half-way down his throat. He hums a sound that's nearly laughter and Steve gasps.

“Buck, I'm gonna come if you keep doing this,” Steve warns. His voice has gone high. The helplessness of it makes Bucky hum again and Steve clenches everywhere, trying to hold off.

Bucky hollows his cheeks, sucking hard on the thick length of Steve's cock as he slowly lifts his head. He drags his lips up toward the tip until they're just barely kissing the slit. Then he descends again, twisting his head slowly from side to side around the axis of Steve's prick until his mouth is at the base and he has swallowed all there is.

“Buck,” Steve warns, and Bucky sucks harder, moaning as his lips glide up around Steve's blushing skin.

“Oh,” Steve breathes, and Bucky feels semen pulsing out against his palate, flooding his mouth with the sweet-cream taste of Steve. He watches as Steve's hips flex involuntarily, trying to drive every last drop of seed deep into his body on instinct.

Bucky pulls off with a wet popping of lips and then presses a stray bead of come back into his mouth with a fingertip.

Steve is still panting a bit, but his breaths are beginning to slow. His pulse is dropping. Bucky can see it leaping a little less with every beat beneath Steve's flushed neck.

“Whatcha doin' way down there?” Steve slurs. He hasn't stopped staring at Bucky once, but his blinks have not been synchronized for some time. This is as close as Steve comes to getting drunk.

Bucky climbs up the bed and brings the blankets with him. He wraps Steve up in arms and sheets and Steve is asleep less than ten seconds after they're settled, puffing deliciously steamy breaths out against the base of Bucky's throat.

Bucky feels like he just picked God's pocket.

He remembered doing this with Steve, but the gap between memory and reality is wider in this instance than it has been in any other. That thrill low in his belly was absent in his memories. The heat wasn't real. The sweat was missing. The wetness. The urgency.

He loves the way Steve's knees are sticking to his own because his cock was leaking onto them the whole time he had his mouth on Steve's skin. Like something wild.

He thinks of a leopard pulling an impala up into a tree, leaving the rest of the world below and escaping with its feast.

Steve wakes less than ten minutes later, stretching and then going limp for a moment before leaning in to butt his forehead gently against Bucky's. He can taste his own come in Bucky's mouth when he kisses him. Salty, rich, and familiar. He sucks it from Bucky's tongue and slowly leans into Bucky's body, pressing him onto his back and rolling half-way on top of him. When Bucky's arms come up, Steve readies himself to back off, worried that he's causing Bucky to feel caged in and claustrophobic, but Bucky tugs Steve entirely on top of himself and gives his ass a deep squeeze. Steve hums against Bucky's skin.

“Show me what I like,” Bucky says, and Steve nods and mouths at Bucky's lips, tugging and nipping them, then tracing them softly with his tongue before licking inside.

Steve sucks Bucky's tongue in a slow rhythm, laving it with his own and lazily rocking his hips, rubbing their cocks between their bellies.

Steve can feel Bucky clutching at his back when he's particularly pleased with what they're doing. Having his earlobes lightly bitten and then dragged between teeth proves as popular as ever; Bucky's nails rake Steve's shoulder blades just like they did all those years ago.

When Steve sucks on Bucky's neck, it's even better: Bucky goes still. And this is the same, too. Bucky shuts down to let himself focus, exercising the same willpower that makes him so good behind a gun. He's drinking in slow even breaths, but sighs are slipping through his lips. And Steve can feel Bucky's erection pressing wetly up into his belly whenever his mouth goes tight over Bucky's throat or his teeth clamp lightly around the sternocleidomastoid.

Steve dips his tongue into the hollow between the collar bones and tastes salt. Bucky's hips arch at having Steve's lips just that little bit lower and Steve hopes Bucky can hold off long enough to let him get farther.

He kisses his way down Bucky's breast and over to his left nipple. It still makes Bucky jerk to have the bud rolled between red lips and sucked into a tight angry peak. Bucky is leaking and lurching against Steve's stomach. Not likely to last long. Bucky loves having his belly kissed, but Steve will give that to him later. For now, he shuffles down the bed, straddles Bucky's legs, and presses his nose into the joint of Bucky's left thigh. It smells like home and heaven all rolled into one. Tart, musky, sweet, oily, and with salt underneath like the sea. Steve lets himself breathe it all in while Bucky calms himself down.

Bucky wants to watch - he's propping his head up with pillows - and Steve knows that's going to make it harder.

Steve turns his head to his left until his cheek is flush with the side of Bucky's cock, then presses his tongue into the hollow of his cheek, shifting Bucky's prick just slightly, licking him through a wall of skin. He sees Bucky's nostrils flare and he smiles up at him before turning to nuzzle Bucky's balls, carefully tracing them with the tip of his nose. Steve can see the pebbled skin of the scrotum swirling around the testes, caressing and cupping them, trying to keep them cool so their contents are safe. Steve hums as he kisses the seam of the sac with naked affection. Bucky tips his head to his right to try to get a better view – his erection is blocking Steve's face. Steve makes it easy on him and kisses his way up the underside of Bucky's cock, feeling it bob up against his lips. The texture of the skin is somewhere between silk and velvet - rose petals - but warm with blood and wrapped in veins. Steve kisses the tip and the bead of fluid that has gathered there makes his lips slick and sticky. When he lifts his head, a strand of fluid stretches between their skin like a spider's web. Steve dips his head and kisses it again and his lips spread a little bit wider this time, letting Bucky feel a hint of the wetness within.

The muscles of Bucky's core clench. Steve will make it up to them later. He reaches for Bucky's right hand and then sets it against his left cheek.

When Steve takes Bucky's cock in his mouth, Bucky can feel it from both sides. He can feel the sodden satin heat of Steve's mouth against the head of his cock, and he can feel the firm curve of his own prick pressing out through Steve's cheek. Steve's lips are gripping him tightly and Steve's eyes are smiling up at him while Steve's mouth is full. Bucky runs the tip of his ring finger along Steve's lips, feeling the way the flesh is stretched around his shaft. His finger stays with Steve's mouth as Steve glides up and down, into the fur and back to the crown, leaving everything slick with spit and throbbing.

Steve's lips keep getting redder.

So does Bucky's prick. And it feels warmer, wetter, and hotter, like it's going to boil away into steam between Steve's lips and unspool all of Bucky's atoms. Like he's going to evaporate and be breathed in by Steve.

Steve can hear tiny noises slipping past Bucky's lips and he moans in sympathy. The vibrations buzz through Bucky's nerves and his hips arch up, pressing him deep into Steve's mouth as his semen bursts up against the back of Steve's throat.

Bucky's palm is hot and damp against Steve's cheek. The fingers are shaking faintly.

Steve remains still as Bucky goes soft in his mouth, then gently parts his lips and lets Bucky slip out.

Bucky is already asleep.

Steve smiles, climbs carefully up the bed, tucks them both in, and rubs Bucky's belly until he falls asleep, too.

The sun wakes them at six pm as it sinks toward the sea. They shower, eat a loaf's worth of French toast for supper, curl up on the couch to do some reading, and end up cuddling and falling asleep.

They do little but eat, sleep, and make love for a week. They only break from it to spend time with Thor and Nat.

Steve is markedly more flexible when he goes to dance with Natasha.

“What's your secret, Gumby? And don't say supersoldier serum.”

Bucky watches as Steve goes pink. He plays Natasha's question back in his mind and then starts cackling, tipping over on the couch and shaking against Thor's side.

“Gutter-brained punk,” Steve huffs, shaking his head and trying not to laugh. His face it still red. Natasha waggles her eyebrows at him and looks pointedly at Bucky. Steve sighs and rolls his eyes, but he's beaming: Bucky just laughed hard without being tickled. Steve has been waiting for this for weeks.

Bucky doesn't mark the milestone because he's just fallen asleep under Thor's arm.

Thor knew what had happened the second he walked in the door: you can wash sex out of sheets, but getting it out of the air is tricky, and Thor's nose is as good as his ears.

The next week's grocery delivery has a lot of lube tucked away in the toiletries. Steve is grateful he didn't have to ask. Thor is grateful that life is finally treating his friends right.

Steve gamely puts up with Bucky's not-really-jokes about how maybe he could use an injection of supersoldier serum.

They meet Maureen's husband Michael. Broad and burly with big rough hands and a warm smile. He walks with them to the western edge of the lot where he takes apart a bit of an old stone wall, then shows them how to put it back together again.

They pick it up quickly – their eyes are accustomed to making careful measurements, and lifting stones is as easy as putting away the dishes.

“You missed your calling, lads,” Michael says, shaking his head and smiling.

Summer comes with long days and warm breezes.

For Steve's birthday, Natasha gives him a blue bikini: a stringy halter top with two skimpy triangles of fabric to cover his breasts and a brief-style bottom. She shows him the one she made for herself and he finds that she was very fair - hers is just as skimpy, but it's red, and rather less spacious in the crotch.

Bucky looks at the tiny blue swimming suit in its nest of white tissue paper and immediately suggests that they go swimming.

Thor agrees. He and Bucky don't have bathing suits, so they stride naked into the sea and wait for Steve and Nat to finish getting changed and join them.

Steve goes off to the linen closet to grab towels so they won't be stuck dripping dry. When he and Nat meet up in the hall, it's like looking in a funhouse mirror. Their scars nearly match.

Natasha sees the gnarled flesh on Steve's body and remembers that a man took a hammer to Michelangelo's David in nineteen ninety-one. That, in nineteen seventy-two, Laszlo Toth had done the same to La Pietà.

We can't have nice things, she thinks, bitter.

“Is the cold water gonna bug your shoulder?” Steve asks, frowning a bit with worry.

She smiles and stands up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“That wasn't a no,” Steve notes.

“It will,” she admits. “But I want to go swimming. Got a hot water bottle I can borrow later?”

“Yeah, but you're better off with Thor. He runs at about a hundred and forty degrees and he gives a mean massage.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah, he-” Steve begins, but then halts and narrows his eyes. “You teasin' me?”

“A little.”

“You're as bad as Bucky.”

“He teases you about Thor?”

“No, he teases me about my butt.”

“Does he know about Thor?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, and then huffs a fond laugh. “He seemed relieved. Pleased, even.”

“Good,” she says, and they make their way down to the back door.

When Steve and Nat come outside, they find Thor and Bucky taking turns launching each other into the air. One crouches beneath the water while the other stands on his shoulders, then the lower one leaps and sends the upper one sailing off into the sea with a splash.

“We are definitely doing that,” Natasha says.

“You're doing half of that,” Steve amends.

“Yeah - the fun half,” she grins.

Bucky whistles long and low when he sees Steve coming.

“And me without a pro,” Bucky says, shaking his head and smirking as he looks Steve up, down, and over.

Steve's eyes go wide and he crumples with laughter.

“I forgot about all that,” Steve pants, staggering into the waves, still giggling.

“Is this something from the Cretacious period?” Natasha sighs, teasing, and Steve nods.

“Pro is short for prophylactic,” Steve explains. “Guys were catching more STIs than bullets. Big push by the military to get us to wear condoms. Donald Duck was on one of the Australian posters. Dugan's cousin mailed him one.”

“You're shitting me,” Nat says, eyes wide.

Steve shakes his head no.

“We didn't have to worry about all that, though,” Bucky says, with a glint in his eye.

“If this is another supersoldier serum joke I'm gonna make spinach for dinner,” Steve warns.

“Relax, Stevie,” Bucky soothes. “It's a queer virgins joke.”

Steve snorts and then wrestles Bucky down under the water.

Steve surfaces sans the top half of his bathing suit.

Bucky surfaces a second later, clutching the bra triumphantly.

Natasha shakes with silent laughter and wonders how her friends are real.

The bulk of Bucky's memories fade in quietly.

It's like fog rolling out and revealing a city. They don't come in chronological order. First, it's the cemetery and farms at the western edge. Then new homes around an old stone church in the middle. Then the mess of businesses and marinas along the coast.

But much of what is revealed is either irrelevant or redundant.

The Brooklyn Bucky lived in is long gone.

The people he knew are all dead, save one.

And he fell in love with Steve again on his own.

Still, he gets to see more of Steve, and that's something. Steve when he was small and frustrated and wild.

And he gets to see himself.

There are very few photographs of either of them from those days. But sometimes Bucky will remember seeing himself in a mirror and the face looking back will be handsome and tired, with big sad eyes and a soft secret smile.

Bucky knows why. These days, his mouth does the same thing. It's being in love with Steve that makes his cheeks lift. But now Bucky's eyes are tipped up at the edges, too. Because Steve is alive and well and safe and warm and his. Not that Steve didn't belong to Bucky before – hedid, and Bucky knew it. But now they've ripped down the last wall left between them: they're no longer owned by fear or states or armies or agencies. They're people, not property, possessed by themselves and each other. They slipped away while the world was still looking up at the light from the men they used to be.

  


11 It’s Just That I’ve Been Losing So Long

In late October, Thor and Nat's surveillance on a warehouse from one of Bucky's tips turns up activity: a woman in her late sixties accessing an office hidden in an old silo on a farm in Austria.

When they arrive at the site, there's a countdown on a digital clock mounted beside a switch.

It reads Sisyphus 00:02:47

“What's the occasion?” Natasha asks, startling the woman who is sitting silently at the desk in front of the screen.

The woman says nothing, but swiftly pulls a gun.

Thor blocks the shot with his hammer and the bullet ricochets back into the shooter's heart.

Natasha breathes her thanks.

There's a small laptop open on the worktop. On the screen is a map, centered over Western Europe. A light is blinking on the southern coast of Ireland.

Natasha feels her heart speed up.

She thinks of Steve's paintings, in stacks in his bedroom and all through the house, full of green hills and umber cliffs.

Of names like Kearney, Connolly, and Barnes.

Of swimming in saltwater with three beautiful blue-eyed boys.

Steve doesn't have a cell phone. He has a land line he can't answer.

Thor is dialing the number. He hands Natasha his cell phone while he burns the HYDRA agent's body away to nothing with a bolt from Mjolnir.

The phone picks up after the second ring, though there's no voice at the other end.

“Steve, it's me. They're going to detonate his arm. You have to get it off him.”

“How much time?” Steve asks.

“Two minutes twenty-four seconds.”

Steve's laugh is bitter.

“Won't work.”

“Steve-"

“Gotta run. Love ya, Nat.”

“Steve, no-” she starts, but he's already hung up.

Steve grabs his shield from the closet under the stairs and sprints down to the beach with Bucky in tow.

“Steve, you've gotta go. Get behind those rocks or somethin',” Bucky urges, shoving Steve toward cover.

Steve shakes his head and gouges a hole in the sand with his shield.

“End of the line, pal,” Steve says. “Lie down on your left side for me.”

Bucky makes a face and Steve widens his eyes and points at the ground.

“Please.”

When Bucky is on his side in the damp sand with his left arm in the divot, Steve sets his shield over the limb like a roof, and then crouches on top of the vibranium dome to try to contain the blast. Bucky's shoulder has to stay under the shield, too. He rolls his body forward so that most of him is on top of the metal with Steve.

“Think this is gonna work?” Bucky asks, raising a very skeptical eyebrow.

“You got a better idea?”

Bucky purses his lips and shakes his head.

“Nope.”

“It could work. Stranger things have happened, right?” Steve says, but his eyes and cheeks are wet.

“Gimme a kiss, punk. For luck. Quick, Stevie, c'mon.”

“In hindsight, our luck's lookin' kinda shitty, Buck,” Steve laughs, but leans down and kisses Bucky anyway.

“Ain't dead yet,” Bucky offers, grinning.

Thor and Natasha make their way to Maureen's house as quickly as Thor can get them there.

Nat calls Steve constantly, but the line is always busy.

As they draw close, they can see that the house is still standing. The road is empty. No emergency vehicles or flashing lights. No caution tape. No sirens. But Maureen is still away on a book tour, and the nearest neighbors are miles off, so it's unlikely anyone heard anything.

Natasha can hear the gulls screaming before she can see the source of their squabbling.

Thor sets them down at the answer.

Steve's shield is face down in the grass like a bowl. Strips of flesh and clots of gore streak the otherwise unmarred metal. Pieces of Bucky's left arm are scattered within a broad circle, half of which lies in the sea.

All I managed to do was make them watch each other die, Natasha realizes.

She tries to comfort herself with the thought that maybe they had the chance to say goodbye, but it falls flat. Controlled panic is probably as good as they got. They were trying to do something, clearly. Probably hoping to soften the blow with the wet sand. She thinks she should have left them alone. Whatever they were attempting doesn't appear to have worked.

There's a depression in the beach at the water's edge. It's been been smoothed by waves, but not erased. The site of the explosion.

Steve's shield landed fifteen yards inland.

Bucky was most likely tossed into the water.

Natasha has no doubt that Steve staggered in after him.

There are three set of footprints running down to the water. Two are fast and sure, side by side, and they stop at the hole by the surf. But the third is winding and strange. The tracks are uncharacteristically uneven. Smeared and stumbling. Alone.

One set of prints leading out into the sea. None coming in again.

The birds are still dreaming of fatting themselves on what's left of Natasha's friends.

Thor brings a gust of wind that blows the gulls a mile down the beach.

The sky is falling fast. Clouds are pouring in and sinking down around them, deep and wet and dark.

Later, Natasha will learn that they shrouded the entire world.

Where once the universe appeared indifferent to her, she now sees something sinister. Cruel. The child with the magnifying glass, burning ants because it can.

Only they're not ants.

“Steve,” she chokes.

She imagines that there is but one ledger and it is only ever red. That she is a single drop of black in a sea of blood.

Sisyphus, she thinks. Every last one of us.

When the ocean won't give up her dead, Thor and Natasha go back to the house and wander through it while the scents of their friends are still fresh. In the gaps between their own sobs they can hear each other weeping.

Breakfast is cold on the table, half-eaten. The butter has gone opaque on the bread. There are imprints of teeth in toast. She can tell which plate was Bucky's because his right front tooth stuck out just a bit farther than his left. Steve's were straight.

Nat hears a shout behind her and then the sound of something falling to the floor.

When she turns she finds that what fell to the floor was Thor.

He's on his knees in front of the console table by the back door. When she gets closer, she sees that he's looking at two sketchbooks. One is filled with drawings of Bucky, and Natasha grins through her tears, because Steve was one smitten sonofabitch. Bucky's features are rendered in delicate smudges of charcoal and pastel. Soft and full. Boyish and sweet.

Half of the drawings are unfinished, and Natasha can easily see why: the expression on Bucky's face is always one of invitation, and the drawing on the next page is inevitably a finished rendering of Bucky sprawled naked in a slack, sated sleep.

The other sketchbook is filled with a sharper hand. Crisp accurate lines in mechanical pencil. Shadows built up with careful hatching. Steve features heavily in it. But Thor is in there, too. And the drawings are from memory and imagination as often as observation.

There's Moreau's Oedipus and the Sphinx recast with Steve and Natasha's faces.

Abbott Handerson Thayer's angels have been all been given Thor's features, though their bodies remain visibly female.

There's Steve in an altered version of his armor - Bucky made it Asgardian, and Thor is floored by the accuracy – it's exactly as Asgard's armory would have made it.

Color makes an appearance in the more recent sketches. Red and blue for Steve's lips and eyes. And then a whole rainbow as Bucky added costumes to Steve and Natasha's dancing bodies. Like Bakst.

Natasha thinks of Wilfred Owen. Of all the lives wasted in the business of war. All the poetry that will never be written and the paintings that won't be made.

Upstairs, Natasha finds Steve's bed unmade, with pajamas in little heaps at its foot and on the floor. A few strands of blond and brown hair are scattered on the pillows. The mattress sags slightly in the middle. There's a tube of lubricant on the nightstand beside some crumpled up tissues. She sees the watercolor stains of semen on grey sheets and knows that this will likely be her greatest consolation. The hard evidence that they found each other again. That what they were to each other was woven all the way into their bones. That someone had the sense to love Steve Rogers as well as he deserved.

Natasha wants to bring the perfumer Sophia Grojsman to this room and beg her to recreate its scent so that there can be a record of what perfect love was like. Proof that it existed at least once. A portable history in a pretty crystal bottle. A past that she could dab onto her neck, close her eyes, and visit at will. A portrait worthy of her friends.

In the bathroom, Natasha blows steam onto the mirror and laughs out loud when a drawing of a penis appears and vanishes as quickly as it came.

She thinks of the mosaics in Pompeii.

Of lovers asleep in beds, immortalized by ash.

But ash isn't good enough.

Steve deserves gold and lapis.

Linen and resin.

The Valley of the Kings.

She hates the thought that after everything he went through, he's in the cold sea again.

  
  


12 The Life That I Have Made

 

Maureen's book tour won't be finished for two weeks. Thor and Natasha realize there's no point in raining on her parade. When Michael is home, he leaves Steve and Bucky to their own devices and lets them come to visit him so he isn't interrupting what he knows is something like a honeymoon for them.

So, for two weeks, at least, Steve and Bucky will not be missed by more than two people. There are no bodies to bury. Dead today is dead tomorrow. Thor and Nat decide they'll break the news to the Kearneys together so they can hold each other's hands.

They feel like failures.

They don't know what to tell the rest of the world. They wonder if they should say anything at all. If it would be best to led Steve fade into myth while maintaining Bucky's privacy.

They stay at the house for three days, eating perishables and packing up dry goods for Thor to take to food banks. They sleep in the bedroom that belonged to Maureen's boys, with the two twin beds. The one room Steve and Bucky didn't use, because the beds in it were only meant to hold one body and neither man wanted another night of that.

Natasha monitors SHIELD and HYDRA for activity in case anyone traced the call made from Thor's phone or the agent in Austria had accomplices. But there's nothing. No one mentions Rogers or Barnes. No one comes to the house. Natasha isn't sure what she would do if anyone did come through the door. She's fairly certain Thor could control himself. She's also fairly certain she'd put a bullet through Phil Coulson right now if he set foot in Steve's home unbidden. She's grateful not to have to know the answer.

On the fourth day, Thor takes Natasha back home to her apartment and then returns to Asgard – his weather is starting to worry Midgard. His own countrymen are accustomed to it, but Earth's meteorologists can't explain why no one has seen the sun, moon, or stars for three days.

The clouds are an ashen shade of grey - no hints of blue or peach. And unmoving. Like a black and white photograph. Lifeless and unbroken. The air is completely still. No breeze to rustle leaves. No sense of direction. It's unnerving to have overhead, even at night.

At eleven in the morning the following Thursday, the sky darkens over Washington D.C. and there's a firm knock high on Natasha's door.

Thor is on the other side when she opens it.

There are shadows under his eyes the color of bruises and visible tension in his face and neck. The smile he gives her is a ghost of the one he usually wears. It's too tight. Too sharp. His focus seems far away. The set of his mouth is strange. Straight. And taut, like he's biting back words. She sees his jaw flex and it makes her think of Steve. Steve when he was angry and disappointed, which was all too often.

The clouds outside are groaning and flashing. Natasha isn't sure if this is better or worse than the dead sky that hung over the word like a pall for three days.

“Do you drink coffee?” Thor asks.

She nods to keep herself from sobbing aloud and follows Thor out into the street.

“The usual?” the barista asks.

“Please,” Thor says, and hands over the thermoses he's been holding under his left arm.

A latte for himself and the espresso that Steve and Bucky would share.

Natasha requests a pour over though she wants to say ВоДка.

Thor tips roughly six hundred percent.

When they get outside, Thor leads her to a park.

“Are you free this afternoon?” Thor asks.

“Yes.”

“Will you keep me company?”

“Of course.”

Thor's face is more relieved than it should be, but Natasha knows that's how it works when everything important has gone so wrong for so long: the universe's tiniest mercies stand taller than they deserve to.

“Will you hold onto these so that I may hold onto you?” Thor asks, gesturing to the thermoses.

She nods and takes the canisters of coffee.

She suspects they're going to go pour espresso into the surf of an Irish beach and she wishes she had dressed more warmly.

Thor picks her up in both arms.

It's odd: normally he has her by the waist with his left while he spins his hammer in his right.

“Hold your breath and flex all your muscles lightly,” Thor advises.

When he feels her comply, he tips his head up to the sky.

“Heimdall, if you would,” Thor says, and the stars seem to descend in a streaming prism.

Natasha wonders how Thor makes it through a day without laughing aloud at every single thing he sees on Earth. It must seem like a giant preschool to him.

He is too kind.

They walk out into a room that feels like the lovechild of an observatory and a gold watch. A man with amber eyes and armor greets them. His voice sounds as old as stone.

When they step out onto the bridge, Natasha wonders how it's possible they're breathing. They seem to be at the edge of space.

Thor puts the thermoses back under his left arm and offers Nat his right. She takes it and they start walking. She gauges it will be at least a mile.

It's so quiet. Just their footsteps tapping and flashing on the technicolor stone beneath their feet as water murmurs and gurgles below the bridge. Clouds full of nascent stars float far overhead. Light years away, but clear as day to Natasha's eyes.

They don't speak, but the silence is comfortable.

The city is strange. All seasons at once. Full blossoms cling to branches though there are occasional flurries of snow. The air is neither warm nor cold. There is rarely glass in windows. The sweet grassy stink of horse shit floats in the streets. Natasha finds the scent strangely soothing rather than the expected offensive.

There are no cars. No wires. No horns. No fumes.

She feels under-dressed in jeans, a printed tee, and a jersey jacket, but she'd have to be wearing Naeem Khan to feel adequately attired.

No one stares or seems insulted. The people nod politely – but subtly - at Thor and aren't intrusive with their awareness.

Everything is well made. Meant to last centuries at least.

But there is much that has been damaged. Stone walls in rubble. Buildings crumbled.

The ruin of war.

And she realizes that no one on Earth ever asks Thor if he's all right, either. He and Steve were like twins. Stoic and selfless. Foolishly presumed to be invincible and unflappable.

“Are you okay?” she asks, in an empty courtyard rimmed with roses.

Thor gives a tight smile but huffs a faint laugh.

“I will be,” he says, and drops his head a little. “I would have thought, after everything I've seen, nothing could come as a shock.”

Natasha nods. She's well acquainted with the ease of going numb; it took her far less than a millennium.

“Your realm has an expression: 'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.'”

Natasha cocks her head and nods again.

“I found out I'm a fool,” Thor breathes. He's almost smiling, but the skin around his eyes is pinched.

The palace feels like a maze made of cathedrals.

It's older than the pyramids and every bit as daunting. Incomprehensible in its craftsmanship.

It's war-torn inside, too. They pass men and women busy with repairs.

At the outer edges of the architecture, the ceilings are lower and the spaces feel more intimate. Less overpowering. As soft as substances like gold and stone can manage to be.

The light flickers slowly over Thor and Natasha's bodies as they walk down a long hall lined with windows. The effect is hypnotic.

At the end, Natasha sees Sif standing in the shadows before a doorway with a sword in her right hand and a shield in her left. She's familiar to Natasha from SHIELD's files. The goddess of war.

The hair on Nat's arms stands on end.

Sif's face is, very possibly, the most beautiful Natasha has ever seen. It is, without question, the most grim.

“Do you swear to keep Asgard's secrets,” Sif asks, staring down at Natasha with ice in her voice and fire in her eyes.

“That won't be necessary,” Thor says.

“I do,” Nat answers, anyway.

“This gamble grows greater with each new conspirator we acquire,” Sif sighs.

“I prefer to think our odds get better with every ally we gain,” Thor says, and the grin he gives to Sif is tired, but real.

Sif rolls her eyes, but returns the grin.

Natasha's skin stops prickling.

Thor reaches for the door and pauses with his hand on the knob.

“I would give you two joys and one sorrow. That still leaves you in the black. Will you take it?”

“Yes,” Natasha says.

Thor give her a grateful smile and opens the door.

She wonders if she's misread everything.

If Thor is really Osiris and she mistook him for Horus.

If he just led her into the afterlife.

If she just let him do it.

She's in a room with three dead men.

When she speaks, they don't answer.

***

When the bomb in Bucky's arm goes off, Steve is launched into the air.

Steve isn't sure how long he's been on the ground. He doesn't think it's been too long, though - the dust hasn't settled. His right eye keeps going blind with the blood that's pulsing down his forehead and dribbling into it.

He can't hear. His whole head is screaming and his balance is off. He feels drunk, careening toward Bucky, who is face-down in a rapidly-reddening sea.

Steve is expecting the water to be warm with his friend's blood. The cold comes as a shock.

He pulls Bucky's face above the waves and tugs the mess of Bucky's left shoulder tight against his chest to try to staunch the bleeding as he hauls him to shore.

But soon everything begins to blur and the sand slips out from under Steve's feet. The water beads up in the air around him and his spatial perception fades.

He hugs Bucky tighter when he sees little spheres of red floating up in front of his face.

Bucky is in shock. His skin is cold and clammy, and not just from being in the ocean. His lips have gone blue the way Steve's used to do with asthma. Steve can barely see the pulse in Bucky's neck. It's weak and erratic, and hard for Steve's left eye to track.

Steve wonders if this is limbo as they sail through the stars. If he'll be watching Bucky die in different ways forever.

It's hell, he decides, and doesn't know why he's even surprised anymore.

Bucky opens his eyes to find the heavens blurring as silence roars in his ears. There isn't any air.

He looks to his left and sees Steve's gaze waiting for him, wet and apologetic.

He has to focus on Steve's face because everything around them is spinning and it makes him feel sick.

Where are we? Bucky asks, but there's no sound. Nothing in his lungs. Just the motion of his lips.

I think we're dying, Steve answers, and gives him a tight smile before leaning in to kiss him.

They tumble across a cold hard floor and come to rest at armored feet.

God has horns and a sword; Death is deep blue and handsome at His shoulder, descending on them like an owl - silent, precise, and inevitable.

Steve thinks he should have seen this coming.

“You can't have him,” Steve says anyway, shaking his head and rolling over to shield Bucky's body with his own.

“Be still,” Death hisses, and Steve's body listens while his mind screams.

Bucky sees the fallen angel that was made in his image and knows that Steve's guess was right.

Dying. And so slowly.

He wonders if it's because they lived so long. If the price you pay in the end is proportional to the sum of your years. If it lasts a little longer for every life you've taken.

At least it doesn't hurt.

He marvels at such a mercy.

Steve has gone limp and fallen away, though his eyes are open wide and weeping.

Bucky says the angel's name but still no sound comes from his lips. It answers anyway, reaching for his left shoulder with long fingers and binding the wound with ice.

Bucky remembers that cold is what stopped his bleeding the last time, too. Falling into snow made his heart sluggish and caused his veins to contract.

He sees his life spinning around like a record and wonders if this is the b-side. Last time monsters dragged him down from the mountains. This time angels pulled him up from the ocean. He's grateful for the inversion.

His eyelids feel heavy and his peripheral vision is fading.

He smells saffron and thinks of Thor crying.

Steve's body is moving, but not of his accord.

Death goes pale again and mounts a huge horse. Steve's arms lift Bucky into the saddle behind the demon and then Steve's body hops up onto the steed's haunches. He holds Bucky in place while Death wields the reins.

Steve has Slim Slow Slider in his head again.

But the horse is not white as snow - it's black, so that it seems to disappear into itself. Steve hopes he's hallucinating. He can't bring himself to be sure of anything, but he'd swear the beast has eight legs.

He tries to focus on his own legs to feel for the beats of the animal's feet against the bridge below, but they don't come. The horse's hips are shifting as its legs churn, but its hooves aren't hitting the ground.

Steve wants to tell Bucky he's sorry.

As they draw near the city, Death takes on the image of an old man. He shrinks and greys and goes blind in one eye.

Bucky wonders if this is how his angel looks for other people. If he only shows his true countenance to Bucky, Steve, and his brother because they belong to him.

The next time Bucky opens his eyes, he sees his soul above his body: a swirling framework of gold fire.

He feels like Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa - though he's dressed like St. Sebastian - like he's been pierced with light. Overwhelmed by it.

He's being tended by two angels. The one at his head looks like a nun. He doesn't know her. The familiar one stands at his feet and looks like an El Greco - gaunt and haunted, but beautiful. Gone firm and tall and young again. Hardly warm, but not quite as cold as before.

Steve is standing at the far edge of the room wearing a long white robe. The wound on the right side of his forehead has been bound. His arms are folded in front of his ribs and he's frowning at the back of the dark angel's head.

Bucky wants to laugh.

Steve Rogers would pull God's hair and kick Him square in the nuts, Bucky muses.

And I'd help him do it.

Bucky can't blame Steve. God's been a real prick about everything, and Steve's never been willing to take anyone's shit. But Steve has always been good, so Bucky trusts Steve to know when the Lord is out of line.

Bucky isn't sure when it is the next time he wakes. His sense of time is unreliable at best. It's night, now, but he couldn't say which night. He's lying in a soft bed in a room that's lit by torches. He can feel feathers underneath him in the mattress. There are furs draped over his legs. They look like deer, but bigger. Maybe elk, though with patterns in the pelts he doesn't recognize.

He feels warm and weightless.

He sees Steve seated at a small table across from both of their angels.

The four of them make matching sets; two duos of light and dark.

Bucky likes the symmetry.

He no longer possesses symmetry of own: his left arm is gone, now. Not even a stump. Just skin pulled tight over a scapula, clavicle, and ribs. He keeps trying to rearrange the bedding with it anyway. Old habits die hard.

Steve is saying something, but Bucky still can't hear it. He sees Steve's lips moving. The angels have their hands held out and Steve is tapping their palms.

A dash and two dots.

Steve's lips move again.

Then one dot.

E, Bucky realizes.

Bucky sees Steve's lips moving again and then his fingers strike the offered skin.

Dot, dot, dash, dot is F.

Bucky works to read Steve's lips for the rest of the alphabet.

After Z, the angels nod.

***

“Steve?” Natasha says again, with fear pitching her voice higher, but he still doesn't turn.

He's sitting on a broad chaise out on a balcony that overlooks a garden. Bucky is by his side, tucked under his left arm. They both have their backs to her.

Loki is seated at a table twenty feet in front of Natasha, tinkering with four gold rings and two gold bracelets.

She feels Thor's hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly.

“The blast from Bucky's arm took their hearing,” Thor says. “Loki is just being rude.”

Natasha wonders whether there's a line between sacrifice and theft. Whether what's lost is really being given or if it's just being ripped away. She suspects it's the latter and wonders when the world will stop robbing Steve and Bucky. She worries that the answer could be never. That life will slowly chip away at them until there's nothing left. And that they will be kind enough to let it happen.

“Sorrow, at your service,” Loki breezes.

“I thought you were dead,” she says, and it's true for all of the men in the room but she means it for the one who had a choice.

“He's a liar,” Thor answers, on his brother's behalf. “And I'm his fool.”

“It's important to know your place,” Loki murmurs.

Thor ignores him and walks off toward the balcony to bring Steve and Bucky their coffee and tell them they have a visitor.

“God of mischief and trickery,” Natasha says, not quite to herself.

“And shape-shifting and lies,” Loki adds, not looking up as she comes closer and bends to examine his handiwork.

“And burned bridges and broken hearts,” she says, softer than a whisper.

“And sorcery, betrayal, and rebirth,” he continues, almost singing the words. “And now wisdom, war, death, victory, prophecy, and poetry, of all things – I'm the Allfather.”

“You're the secret I'm keeping,” she guesses.

“Mmm,” he confirms. “I'm much more efficient now that I'm dead; no one ever sees me coming. You should try it some time.”

“That, I understand,” she says, with a practiced smile in her voice. “What I don't understand is this,” she says, jerking her head in the direction of the balcony.

She sees Loki's jaw tighten.

“Atonement,” he says.

“For which of your sins?”

“Not for mine, but for the realms'.”

“Playing God?”

“I don't have to play.”

“You're no god.”

“Ah, but how can you be sure?” he purrs. “That's the rub with religion, isn't it? Proof can be no part of it. You'll never really know.”

She watches him clamp the bracelets around his wrists and slide the rings onto his thumbs and index fingers. Then he taps the rings together and squints like he's measuring something.

“Oh, so it's just about balance; you're not trying to buy back your brother's love,” she says, casually, leaning in over his shoulder to whisper it in his ear.

He does smell like saffron, and if there's a solid case to be made for Loki's status as a deity, it's in his scent.

“I should have you flogged for suggesting it can be bought,” Loki sighs. “And put my knife back in its sheath, if you would.”

She admires the carvings on the handle before she returns the weapon.

She knows he's lying. He sugar-coated the revelation of his deception by wrapping it up with his rescue of Thor's friends.

Still, she can't deny it's a bit brilliant.

And desperate.

But then she imagines what it would be like to have Thor's love and lose it.

Like having Steve's love and losing it, she decides, and the thought makes her sick. Unbearable.

But Steve doesn't stop loving people, she remembers.

Which means that Thor doesn't either.

And it occurs to her that Thor has it worse: Bucky's betrayals were all accidental, but Loki's were deliberate. Which explains why Thor looks every bit as sad and angry as he does delighted.

It also occurs to her that Loki is an idiot: he doesn't know his brother still loves him.

She'll tell Loki later, and she'll really rub his nose in it.

She'll also thank him, because regardless of the means and the reasons, the end is that Steve and Bucky are still breathing.

So there is something more than the scent of saffron that's worth praising in him, she realizes. He loves Thor, so he spares him heartbreak. To do so, he's saved Jane, Steve, Bucky, and even himself in some sense.

She recasts Loki in her mind.

The god of serendipity.

Of the accidental.

Of the unanticipated.

Of the roundabout.

Of the upside-down.

Of the answered prayer.

Of the long con.

Natasha hears Steve calling her name and her pulse speeds up.

She's been wearing noise-canceling headphones for the last week because if she heard music while she was walking down the street, she thought of dancing, and if she thought of dancing, she thought of Steve, and if she thought of Steve she broke like a rotten stick and wept for at least an hour. And she couldn't tell anyone why.

He's backlit by the light from the balcony and it's hard to see his face. Like he's still not real.

He's wearing a tunic that laces at the neck and trousers that tie at the waist. Both made of white linen. The stuff of shrouds. It makes her nervous.

“If you look straight at me, speak slowly, and enunciate really carefully, I still can't lipread for shit. It's impossible. It just looks like everybody has peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths.”

She laughs and her muscles slacken; no ghost could be a such a smart-ass.

Steve Rogers, she marvels.

God of constancy.

Of sacrifice.

Of endurance.

Of survival.

Of resilience.

Still here, with the love of his life in tow.

Living proof of the luck of the Irish.

She hadn't planned to run but she can't resist. She sprints across the room and hears her footsteps echoing off stone walls.

Steve is grinning. He dips to scoop her up and then spins her so fast her legs fly out behind her.

When he slows, she clamps her ankles behind his back and hums a long sigh of relief into the side of his neck. He feels it buzzing through his skin and he hugs her tight while he peppers the side of her face with kisses. He can see the pulse jumping in her throat so he hangs onto her, rocking her lazily and rubbing her back as he carries her out onto the balcony to sit beside Bucky.

Bucky looks wan and sunken, but he's smiling.

“I don't mean to be rude sittin' here like this, Nat, I'm just not allowed to stand up on my own yet,” Bucky says, leaning over to peck her on the cheek.

She wants to tell him he doesn't need to apologize for anything ever again as long as he lives, but that's a mouthful, so she settles for kissing his lips and shooing away his words with a smiling shake of her head.

“Do you know Morse code?” Steve asks, and she nods.

She's straddling Steve's lap as they sit on the chaise. His arms are still looped around her from holding her up as they spun and she has her hands behind his neck.

Good 2 c u, Steve says, with taps on the small of her back, and she laughs at his use of text-speak.

Good 2 c u 2, she replies, with careful presses of her finger onto the last bone of his neck.

He knows what she's going to do as soon as she knows it herself. He sees her eyes go to the right corner of his mouth and he leans forward to offer it up for a kiss.

Steve's skin still smells the same under the spice of Asgard's soaps: like a boy's, sweet and milky. But his face has changed. Something beyond tired. Worse than he looked on the banks of the Potomac. He's had another horror overlaid on the hundreds of others that already fill his head. He's seen so much of Bucky's blood. He's had his hard-earned happiness ripped out from under him. Had his safety shattered. And he's lost an entire sense. He's lost music. Lost the advantage of being able to hear something coming. Lost the ease of conversation. Lost birdsong and alarm clocks. Lost his best friend's voice and laughter.

But he's still in one piece.

Want 2 dance? she asks.

“I'm gonna call you Sadie Hawkins,” Steve says, smiling and dropping his hands under her butt so she doesn't get dumped onto the floor as he stands up.

Otzi, she teases, with taps on his shoulder, and he smiles again.

He carries her farther out onto the balcony and sets her down so that they can begin their warmups.

Out of the corners of her eyes, Natasha can see the other men in the room throughout her dancing: Bucky is watching Steve, Thor is watching Bucky, and Loki is watching Thor.

Steve smiles the whole time they dance, so Natasha dances with him until she can no longer keep up. Then they move on to stretching and cooling down.

When Natasha looks again, she sees that Steve's smile has infected Bucky, and Bucky's grin has spread to Thor's cheeks.

She feels like she's accomplished something.

It's the mirror of the joy she got when she looked at Steve and Bucky's sketchbooks. A dept repaid.

Endymion comes back to her.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits...

“Eir will be here in a few minutes,” Loki calls, and Thor turns to tap the words into Bucky's skin.

Steve looks up. He's sitting with his legs straight out in front of him as he reaches for his toes.

Natasha sees Thor sign the message to Steve in Morse: a flat hand with palm facing the ground for a dash, and a tight fist for a dot.

Steve nods and climbs to his feet, then lifts Bucky and carries him back into the room as Thor goes to answer the door.

Loki joins Natasha on the balcony. Her eyes go to the door and then follow the woman who is examining Bucky's left shoulder.

“She's Asgard's oldest healer,” Loki says, quietly. “She delivered Thor. There are no better hands than hers in all the realms.”

He takes Natasha's left wrist with long cool fingers and clamps a gold band onto it. The metal contracts of its own accord until it fits her like skin. Then he slips gold rings onto her right thumb and index finger. She can see he's identically outfitted.

When he taps his rings together, she can feel it pinging in the band around her wrist.

She taps her rings together to code Transmitters? into his bracelet and he nods.

I want to test their range, he writes, and then he steps over the edge of the balcony.

She can see huge black wings flapping where his cape should be.

Why were you watching Steve? she taps.

I wasn't.

You were watching Thor, she guesses.

He doesn't answer, and she knows that means she's right.

So are you atoning for wrongs done to Steve or to Thor? she asks.

Two birds, one stone, Loki replies. They've each given their lives to your realm once already. And Barnes had his taken from him.

That's three birds, Natasha notes.

As I said, I'm more efficient these days.

Merciful, she offers.

Practical, he counters. What your people did to Rogers and Barnes they did perfectly: turned them into tortoises.

What? Natasha writes, and Loki reappears on the balcony.

Black feathers melt away like inky wisps of smoke.

“Starfish, if you prefer,” Loki answers, softly. “Either way, they're not aging.”

“What's practical about that on your end?”

Loki answers in Morse.

They are loyalty incarnate. I would have them left standing to set fire to Thor's ship when he falls. Men worthy of all that Thor is. Was.

Natasha stares, unblinking and not breathing, for several seconds.

“Do you have something better to do that day?” she asks, finally, and he huffs a quiet laugh and replies in code again.

If I last that long, I'll burn with my brother. Some things don't bear surviving. Steven will second me on that sentiment, I think.

She pictures Steve crashing a jet and staggering into the sea and knows she can't argue with Loki on that count.

“Why didn't you bring them both here before the bomb went off?” she asks.

“That arm was, possibly, the second thing your people have ever done perfectly,” he sighs. “To remove it from its signal would detonate it, and I couldn't have it going off in the Bifrost. To open it up and attempt to disarm it would set it off as well. I was confident the captain would sort it out in the end. Refreshing to have faith rewarded, is it not?”

He takes the rings and bracelet off of himself and leaves them in her keeping. She watches him shift into the shape of a stern old man before he slips out the door.

She wonders whether Thor's father is still alive or not, but she isn't certain that she wants to know any more of Asgard's secrets.

Natasha can hear Eir making her assessments of Bucky's health: “You may walk now, but not unattended. You must keep the wound in its bindings a little while longer; don't submerge it in the bath just yet. Drink all the water you can stomach and sleep when you're weary. You may resume your lovemaking if you let your partner do the moving and take care not to put yourself under any strain.”

Thor translates everything into Morse code and taps it into Bucky and Steve's hands.

Bucky gives Steve a wicked grin at that last bit of information. Natasha can see Steve's ears reddening.

Natasha gives Steve and Bucky the gifts from Loki. They're delighted to be able to speak to each other while they're in separate rooms or otherwise out of each other's eyelines. And they both look good in gold. It gives much-needed warmth to their skin.

The four friends dine together, eating a thick stew from heavy bowls as they sit around Bucky's bedside. They use the adapted Morse hand signals and manage to carry on a lively conversation. Thor seems in better spirits, though they all catch him looking at the door from time to time.

Natasha wonders whether Thor is hoping Loki will join them or if he's worried that Loki will appear. Probably a bit of both, she decides.

After supper, Natasha falls asleep tucked under Steve's right arm as they sit up in bed beside Bucky tapping messages into each other's skin.

When she wakes at dawn, she sees Loki bent over Bucky like some benevolent vampire.

Loki is coding something into to far side of Bucky's neck. Natasha can't see what.

Bucky is tapping his answers onto the back of Loki's left hand, which is palm-down over his heart.

First he asks, Is it safe? And then, Will it hurt? And finally says, Yes, please.

Loki nods and leaves.

Steve opens his eyes and asks Bucky what they were talking about.

Natasha wonders how Steve knew Loki was in the room, then realizes she can smell the saffron scent of him, too.

It's a surprise, Bucky replies, tapping his rings together to buzz the answer into Steve's wrist.

Steve narrows his eyes and bites Bucky's ear.

Bucky points in the direction of the bathroom and tosses his head, so Steve shuffles over with him and takes his arm as they stand. Bucky is slow and a little wobbly. Nat knows that Loki's been giving him generous doses of Asgard's apple-based analgesics so that he can sleep through the ache of his shoulder healing. If they're strong enough to stop Bucky's pain, then they're strong enough to knock him half way out. It's a wonder he can walk at all.

Natasha stays behind in bed and feels vaguely guilty for inadvertently falling asleep at Steve's side in the middle of a Morse conversation. He probably wanted to have sex with Bucky last night, too, but she was drooling into his armpit like an oaf.

When the boys come back from the bathroom they climb straight back into bed. Steve holds his right arm out to his side. Nat blinks and then slowly lifts her head. Steve slides his arm under her neck and she goes back to using him as a pillow.

Captain America: still as clean as a whistle, even with a killer tucked under each arm, Natasha thinks. God of innocence, she decides.

They sleep until Thor shows up with breakfast.

Nat goes home afterward; the longer she stays on Asgard, the more elaborate her lies about it will have to be later, and the more truths she'll have to weave into them to make them stand up. She promised not to part with the majority of those truths, so it will already be tricky. And Maureen will be back from her book tour on Monday. Nat needs to come up with the least alarming way to explain that Bucky's arm exploded and he and Steve were nearly killed, but that there's no need to worry: they're safely on the other side of the universe now.

At night, Steve lies awake and misses the sound of Bucky breathing. He has to feel for the faint motions in the bed and the increase in pressure against his left side as Bucky's lungs fill and press his right arm into Steve's ribs a fraction of an inch farther.

Steve dwells on the frantic hours after the explosion.

Made more frantic because Steve couldn't hear a word that was being said.

After Bucky was stable, Steve asked Loki to relate their conversations, and Loki wrote it all out for him.

Sometimes Bucky was lucid. Rational. Lying on the healer's table, looking down at the blue cast of his own fingernails and saying, “I'm in shock. I need a blood transfusion.”

But, seconds later, Bucky was smiling up at Loki and asking about angels and eidolons.

For Steve, it feels like Bucky is several different people wrapped up in one skin.

Steve supposes that Bucky must be – that everyone is. You're the different people you've been to the different people you've known. You're also the people you've become as you've outgrown your former selves, moving through your life like an inverted hermit crab that carries all its old shells inside itself, unable to fully shed those ill-fitting identities.

Bucky built his identity back up from nearly nothing. The foundation was, by necessity, the most fractured part of it because he made it first, at the time when he possessed the least information with which to build it. Steve feels similarly fragmented inside. Frustrated and small. Furious and powerful. Forever disappointed. His inner selves are slightly less disparate, but his life has been a little more consistent. His mind has been largely unchanged. Bucky's mind and body have both been overhauled. And the alterations to his mind were complete.

Steve thinks of F. Scott Fitzgerald: “An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.”

By that standard, Bucky makes Michelangelo look like a poseur.

There's the Bucky that devours articles on physics, believes in the Big Bang, can eyeball measurements to the nearest millimeter, and avails himself of every opportunity to kick Steve's ass at mathematics.

And nested within that man, like a Russian doll, there's the Bucky who lives on art history books and myths, quotes Shakespeare, remembers the orders of angels, and pesters Aesir kings about which sort they are – “Are you a Hashmal, a Power, or a Ruler? Or are they all the same?”

Loki had frowned at that question, but, in the interest of keeping Bucky conscious and content, he played along. He blew words out of his mouth like smoke rings, sending glowing green letters floating up into the air for Bucky to read. He asked Bucky to elaborate as he resumed his careful stitching on the ruin of Bucky's shoulder. At the end of Bucky's explanation, Loki sighed and said, “Hashmal, I suppose, but all rivers run to the sea.”

Bucky nodded and looked pleased.

In hindsight, Steve is relieved he hadn't been able to hear the conversation as it occurred: the subject would have made him certain that Bucky was going to die on the table. But now the whimsy is a welcome reminder of the deep vein of sweetness that runs through Bucky's core. The one that made Bucky fall in love with a stubborn sickly punk almost a century ago. The one that made him pull a man he could barely remember up from the bed of a river. The one that made him climb in Steve's bedroom window like Peter Pan's shadow and sleep by his side instead of slitting his throat.

Steve will never get over the way Bucky wrenched his humanity from war's numbing fingers. He's amazed that Bucky wanted to feel anything ever again after what HYDRA did to him; it's unfathomably brave for one who had plumbed the depths of pain to wish to risk feeling. To render himself vulnerable to further injuries. To turn the other cheek.

Steve rolls over and wraps his arm around Bucky's waist.

U ok? Bucky taps, turning his head to find Steve's eyes in the dark.

Steve nods and kisses Bucky's shoulder.

When his breathing has calmed, he kisses Bucky's lips. It's different now. They can't hear the smacking, so they skip it, much as they did in their tent during the war when they didn't want to make a sound. Now their mouths do more clasping, tracing, and sliding. More dragging and nipping. But humming makes their lips tingle, and they love it - like an electric current flowing through their skin - so that's a sound they keep.

Steve shuffles down the bed, rucks up Bucky's shirt, and spends a long time kissing Bucky's belly. Such a wealth of smooth, responsive skin. And so soft. Protected by clothing from the wind and sun. As perfect as it was when they were kids and used to pinch and tickle each other.

The muscles below flex and jump with the teasing of Steve's kisses. Steve runs his hand over them in long strokes to calm the fluttering feeling. The sexless pleasure of it makes them both feel like boys again. Steve lingers so long that Bucky has gone soft by the time he gets to his hips. But then Steve taps, Can I have you in my mouth? against Bucky's skin, and suddenly Bucky's fingers are deftly undoing the bow that's tied in the linen drawstring of his pajama bottoms.

Steve takes Bucky's cock in his mouth while it's still soft, letting it roll across his tongue as it swells with blood. He wraps his lips tight around the base and hums against the furry flesh to make it buzz.

Bucky is running his fingers through Steve's hair in gentle encouragement. Tracing the tips of his ears so that Steve can still use them to communicate. The digits speak an endless Yes into Steve's skin.

Steve swirls his tongue around the cherry-smooth head of Bucky's cock until Bucky squirms, then he teases the tender V of flesh on the underside of the slit, licking it with maddeningly light strokes that make Bucky's cock leap in his mouth.

The motions of Bucky's fingers grow more erratic the longer Steve's head moves above his hips.

Close, Bucky warns, tapping his rings together as his limbs go tense.

Let me taste your come, Steve answers, twisting his head the way Bucky likes while he presses Morse straight into the peak of Bucky's left hip.

Bucky stiffens and grants Steve's wish, sending semen pulsing out onto Steve's tongue. He twitches a few more times before going limp on the bed.

Steve licks Bucky clean and then climbs back up to settle beside him.

It's rude to talk with your mouth full, punk, Bucky teases.

Oh, was that a disapproving orgasm?

Gotta get some manners in you somehow.

Steve laughs. Bucky can feel Steve's body shaking against his side as Steve's breath puffs out against his shoulder in short bursts.

You gonna return the favor? Bucky asks. Put some manners in me?

That what we're calling it now? Manners? Steve taps. Not supersoldier serum?

Bucky nods and then scoots down the bed so that his legs are folded up at the foot and his head is in the middle. He makes Steve spread out above him like a roof. Then Steve holds perfectly still while Bucky sucks and strokes his cock until Steve comes straight down his throat.

Bucky loves to feel Steve's body shuddering as Steve's length slides between his lips. He loves to lie flat on his back and feast on his friend. He half-wants to ask Eir to tell Steve they have to make love like this forever.

Thor takes them on tours of the palace and its grounds. They go a little farther every day as Bucky begins to feel better. And it's beautiful. Lush and clean. Wild and strange. They look at the sea pouring off of Asgard's edge and think of the fears of Earth's ancient sailors.

Nat comes on Thursdays to dance with Steve and deliver caffeine. Thor and Bucky watch from the chaise and drink alarming quantities of coffee while they keep a silent running commentary about how good Steve's butt looks. It turns into a weekly battle of wits to see who can come up with the best metaphor to capture the beauty of the captain's bottom.

When it's time to break for dinner, Loki leans over Thor and Bucky's shoulders and taps his assessment of Steve's assets into their skin. He always wins.

Loki's gift is a golden arm.

Steve is, indeed, surprised the first time Bucky wears it because the first thing Bucky does with it is goose him.

This limb is light and hollow. It houses no bomb. It needs no wires to run through Bucky's skin and pinch his neurons for its guidance. The thing reads his mind. And it comes off readily, which is a relief. Sometimes Bucky wants the balance and strength of the thing, but other times he wants to be nothing more than flesh and blood - wants only the warm fragility of skin beside Steve's body.

Mostly, he wears it, though – it's always nice to be able to grab matching handfuls of Steve's ass, or to simultaneously pinch both of his nipples, or to drag Steve's head up and down his cock after he finds out that sometimes Steve wants it fast and rough.

After two months, Thor and Bucky notice that Steve is getting restless. Distracted. Homesick.

Thor wants Steve and Bucky to stay on Asgard forever, though he never mentions it.

Loki and Bucky both know it anyway, and they both know that some day, barring disaster, Steve will be ready for it, and they'll both come back. But that's still decades down the line. Maybe centuries.

He doesn't really have a whole lot of time left with his other friends and family, Bucky codes, tapping into Thor's palm while Steve and Nat are helping each other stretch.

Thor nods. He's in the same boat; he sleeps on Midgard every night.

Loki casts a spell that makes a chunk of Ireland disappear. If you've been there before, you can find it, and if you've been invited it readily appears. But, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Maureen Kearney's land has been lost to the sea like Donn.

When they get back to Maureen's house, Natasha sets them up with cell phones, laptops, and internet access, because Loki's spell means the source can no longer be traced. She suspects Loki tampered with the phone call she made from Thor's cell when she warned Steve about Bucky's arm. She finds she doesn't mind the meddling.

Steve loves having his cell phone back and Bucky instantly grasps why: it's a joy to be able to text friends when they're far away. Steve had missed Sam a great deal, and now it's like they're in each other's pockets.

Bucky sends Thor Snapchats of Steve's butt. Thor responds with Snapchats of things that remind him of Steve's butt - the cleft in a peach, the down on Jane's cheek, the gap between his own pectorals. Steve and Jane both know what Thor and Bucky are up to, and they both pretend not to have a clue.

Steve and Bucky text each other a lot, too. They appreciate being able to send whole sentences in one shot, and having the capacity to edit their speech before it's delivered instead of during feels like a luxury after so many broken and aborted strings of Morse code.

Bucky loves the internet as much as Steve does. A world of ones and zeros. It makes sense to him. Information everywhere, if you know how to ignore the nonsense, which he does.

They watch videos to learn ASL and they marvel at how much more expressive it is than Morse, though they still love the conspiratorial nature of the code - and the convenience of Loki's transmitters - so they use it quite often.

Thor enjoys all new languages and ASL becomes one of his favorites – it requires a level of engagement between the participants in a conversation that makes other languages seem sloppy and impolite in comparison.

Bucky learns that a lot of people have been wanting to know where Steve is. That they're worried that something has happened to him. Bucky finds that reassuring. He asks Steve if he can tell the world he's okay. Steve says yes, and then asks Bucky what he wants to tell them about himself.

They make a youtube video and read from a script that they wrote so that they won't have to think too hard about what they're saying. Steve does the speaking and Bucky does the signing. They stick to the facts. But, even though he knows what's coming, Steve still ends up breaking down before they've made it a minute in. Bucky tugs Steve into his shoulder and turns off the camera. He rubs Steve's back and hands him tissues until Steve is ready and then they pick up where they left off. They continue this way - in short segments interspersed with sobbing - until they've read the whole of it. Bucky edits out as much of the crying as he can, but Steve's face is still tellingly red and wet throughout, and there are frequently tears in his eyes that he frantically blinks down his cheeks so that he can see to read.

The best responses to the video come from children, so they're the only ones Bucky bothers to reply to.

The majority of them want to know Has Steve stopped crying? and Is Captain America okay?

So Bucky films Steve while Steve is reading Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled. Bucky had already read it, and he laughed until he ached. Steve has the same reaction, just as Bucky hoped he would. At one point there's a limerick so rotten Steve shouts, slams the book shut, and tosses it to the far side of the couch. Bucky doubles over laughing, knowing exactly what Steve just read.

Bucky edits the best bits of the footage into a video titled Cap Is Okay, and addresses it to all the kids who wanted to know. It's just Steve smiling and laughing for thirty seconds straight. Bucky's pretty sure half of the hits on the video are his own - and Thor's.

Steve gets his bank account back and asks if he can reimburse Thor and Maureen for feeding and sheltering him for such ludicrous lengths of time. They tell him it's their pleasure and he doesn't need to worry about it.

It makes Steve sulk a bit. He lies on his back on the couch, unwilling to read or draw, feeling unworthy of the things that could be considered frivolous.

And it's familiar to Bucky.

Back in the thirties, Steve used to get this way a lot. He felt like a millstone. He watched his mother work a job that would eventually kill her so that she could keep a roof over his head. Every time he got sick he felt guilty because it meant even more work and worry for her. He couldn't get it through his thick skull that loving him was not a burden. That supporting him was a pleasure. That to know him was a privilege, not a punishment.

Steve has been unemployed since the spring, Bucky realizes. No wonder he's getting grumpy.

Bucky makes Steve a website and sends Steve a text.

I'm gonna sell your art on an internet gallery, punk. I work Tuesday through Thursday, noon to three. I take a 60% commission. And you have to sleep with me.

Bucky's phone buzzes in his hand four seconds later.

Deal. But you have to figure out the taxes.

Bucky swears aloud and then hopes Maureen didn't hear him up at her house.

Phil Coulson snatches up a lot of the pieces in the first month that the website is running. Then Tony Stark catches on and makes a game of beating Phil to the punch – Phil is still working, whereas JARVIS can pounce on Steve's website the second a new painting pops up. But Stark donates his acquisitions to museums, or displays them in businesses where they'll be accessible to the public, so Bucky doesn't mind.

Sometimes Bucky will trade stuff with little kids and send Thor to make the swap.

Sometimes he has Thor escort Steve so Steve can deliver the piece himself. The kids usually want the colorful things – studies of the wildflowers of southern Ireland or the sea on a sunny day. Every couple weeks a new video will pop up on Thor's youtube channel: Steve with a four year old girl hugging him for all she's worth while his eyebrows arch comically and a grin splits his face with bright teeth. Steve never cuts the kids' hugs short. He lets them ramble in his ear while Thor translates everything into ASL for him so that he can converse with them. There are usually parents in the background hiding smiles and laughter behind their hands.

Steve is once again happy enough to work on drawings and paintings. He's less distracted, so his dancing improves. His deafness forces him to watch Natasha closely for timing cues: it makes them look like they're wildly in love. Nat sews them costumes based on Bucky's drawings and then Thor sneaks the dancers off to city parks to give anonymous performances for children.

Steve and Bucky are wrapped in a silence that makes them feel like they're in their own world. It's weirdly welcome. Sometimes Bucky wonders if going deaf was some warped gift from well-meaning-if-misguided fates: he did more than his share of listening and now he'll never have to do it again; Steve never did what he was told to begin with and now no one can tell him what to do.

Still, they miss music and the sound of each other's voices.

They find ways to give each other their fair share of words.

Steve knows Bucky peeks at his sketchbook every morning, so he writes a letter on the back of the last drawing he does each night.

One day it's You forgot to flush, punk, and from the look of it you ought to chew your food a little longer. xoxo

Amnesia, asshole! xxxooo is scrawled at the bottom in mechanical pencil.

Another day it's Get your ass back in bed and beat some manners into me, Barnes.

And another day it's Buck, I love you so much it scares me. Sometimes I can barely breathe. I'm so afraid to lose you again. Still can't believe we're both here. What did I ever do to get this lucky?

Bucky likes to flag passages in books with little strips of neon paper that have Steve, look! written on them. Neil deGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking appear as often as William Shakespeare and Walt Whitman.

Steve starts making small jewel-tone paintings of galaxies and nebulae. Bucky keeps most of these for himself. Thor buys the remainder for Jane.

Bucky hangs his on the wall behind his desk and uses them to soothe his eyes after he's been staring at his monitor too long.

He looks up at all those light-years condensed onto square foot panels and thinks of the Big Bang. Of starting with nothing and building toward everything. From zero out into the infinite.

And suddenly Bucky worries that the world got it all wrong in thinking that God lit the match that made the universe; it would have to mean that He wrote the story and all the ugliness therein.

Bucky believes that pain can be attributed to the indifference of the universe and the free will of men; to selfishness, greed, envy, and accident.

He wonders if religion has it backward: God didn't make the universe and put people in it; nothingness made the universe, the universe made men, and then men made God.

Bucky imagines that all of time, matter, and human effort were meant to make one perfect thing. Something wholly good. The supreme being.

He remembers the Bible and recasts his favorite passage as prophesy.

God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.

He smells chocolate and follows his nose to the kitchen where Steve is spooning a thick dark batter into a low glass dish - the same one he makes lasagne in.

Steve is love, Bucky argues, silently in his head.

So if God is love, and love is Steve, then Steve is God.

Bucky likes this line of thinking and lets himself linger in it.

Attended by angels.

And we're doing this backward, so the angels predate God.

Thor is over a thousand years old.

Perfect.

Forgiving.

I've tried to kill Him.

Merciful.

He should have killed me.

Miraculous.

It took thirteen billion seven hundred ninety eight million years to make Him.

Bucky knows that if he asks Steve outright, Steve will deny it.

But God would be modest, wouldn't He? Bucky muses. It's a virtue.

Steve's denial wouldn't mean it wasn't true.

God would say He's nothing special.

He'd give you the chance to take His life.

He'd put clothes on your back and a roof over your head.

Make your body sing.

He'd love you even when you were nothing.

And only God would bake perfect brownies and then laugh upon learning you ate them all behind His back while He was washing the dishes.

  


**Author's Note:**

> please pretend commenting is turned off and please don't repost.


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